From the Ashes
by Fade Absolut
Summary: Lorne accidentally lands in Middle-earth after a strange encounter with an even stranger young man near her old house. She might have been trying to chase down an adventure. . . but she never dreamed that one would actually find her! (Fili x OC or Bard x OC).
1. Chasing Fate

Taking a new fandom out for a spin always makes me nervous, but I think I like where this story is going -hopefully, you will, too! The main pairing will eventually be an original character with either Fili or Bard, and there will definitely be some Bilbo/Thorin and Kili/Tauriel happening later, too. So, if you don't like either of those. . . this will be your first and only warning. Not that it will be anything graphic, but I thought that I'd give everyone a heads up.

Also, I have no idea what is going on with my Avengers story, but it's still on hiatus. Sorry for anyone who might like it or be currently reading it.

Anyways! This story will have violence in it, some of it graphic -but I will post a warning at the start of those chapters if that sort of thing bothers you. There are a couple of swears here and there. . . I think? And, like I mentioned before, the romantic parts won't be anything explicit, but romance does play a part. And this chapter is more of an introduction than anything else, so it's a little short. Otherwise, I believe I've covered everything!

Enjoy!

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**#1. Chasing Fate**.

So, moving back in with her mother and step-father isn't the end of the world. Really, it could always be worse. . . right? She still, in fact, has a decent place to return to, and that should count for something. . . shouldn't it?

Yeah, it should. But it doesn't. From the very moment that she left this house behind, about six years ago, now, Lorne has never, _ever_ wanted to come back to it. Honestly? She never thought that she would actually have to come back. College went well. She had a nice job, a small but perfectly comfortable apartment, and she was doing something that she loved.

Sure, working behind a heavy metal mask in boiling temperatures might not seem all that pleasant to most, but building these beautiful, incredible things with her own two hands was. . . well, there was no other feeling like it in the world. Not for her, anyways. It's the only thing that Lorne has ever _wanted_ to do -melting and sculpting and crafting, metals glinting and gears turning and simply. . . creating.

And she was pretty damn good at her job, too -one of the highest rated smiths in the county and certainly one of the most popular with their customers, and all of the other associates there loved to work with her. For the first time in. . . probably ever, Lorne had absolutely loved her life.

Until, of course, everything went wrong. Like their operations manager was fired and the new one that was sent in decided to down-size the company, started making absurd changes to the way things had been running for over two decades. It took about a year, and it was the slowest, most frustratingly painful year that Lorne ever experienced, but the business was eventually forced into bankruptcy. Everyone lost their jobs.

Making a long and miserable story short, she hasn't been able to find an open position in her area of expertise. So, without any steady work, she couldn't afford to stay in her apartment. Hell -she can't even afford to keep paying for her damn car. She sold most of what she had just to get back to town, and now. . .

Now, here she is. Standing within the great, looming shadow of the house that she thought she had finally, _finally_ gotten away from. Except, not. She silently fears that, no matter what she does, no matter how far or how fast she runs. . . she will never be rid of this place. Not ever.

Hanging her head, she stares down at the pavement underneath her feet with hard, stinging eyes. Her boots are scuffed black islands lost inside pools of dark, muddy water, and she can already feel the rain soaking through her hood, her clothes sticking to her flesh like wet coats of paint.

Staying out here any longer. . . well, Lorne might honestly prefer drowning in the storm over facing what lays beyond that front door.

She looks up, then, at that damn house, and takes a deep breath. The tall, solid form walks into her from out of nowhere. She stumbles, nearly trips over the curb and into the street, but a quick, strong hand is suddenly lashing out and circling her wrist. The hand holds on tightly and pulls her up, keeps her from falling backwards as she wavers over the edge.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. . . I wasn't even paying attention." A voice says, boyish and worried and warmly accented. "Are you all right?"

Lorne nods rather dully, attempting to find her footing again on the slick cement. "I'm okay, yeah. I'm sorry, too. I mean, I am kind of standing right in the middle of the sidewalk." She frowns down at the fingers still wrapped around her sleeve and they hurriedly let go.

When she squints up again, expression more exhausted than anything, she notes a mess of long, blond dreadlocks and a surprising amount of concern radiating from his face. He might be a bit younger than her -just out of high school, maybe.

"And it is a little. . . odd, if you'll forgive me for saying. Standing out here in the rain." He mirrors her frown and tugs the collar of his pilot jacket closer around his neck. "Are you sure that you're all right?"

In any of the ways that count? No, she is definitely not all right.

"Yeah. I'm fine." Her attempt at a reassuring tone falls rather flat, though, even to her own ears "I just. . . I just misplaced my house key."

He groans in sympathy. "What luck, huh? I hope you find it soon." And then he brushes past her with the brightest smile, leaving her scowling and slightly unsteady. . . but mostly just confused.

Especially when he gives her shoulder a heavy, fleeting pat before he continues on his way, and she glances behind herself automatically to watch him meet up with another young man -one with long brown hair scraped back into a ponytail and dark, laughing eyes. He gives her a hearty wave that she finds herself. . . returning, after an awkward hesitation. And, as if neither of them were ever there, they drift from the curb and simply melt away into the haze.

Lorne stands there and stares at the place where they disappeared for an endless, disquieting moment. Something. . . something about them. . . She turns to look up at her house yet again, shoving her hands into her pockets. Something smooth presses against her fingers in the left one, a little damp from the rain and carelessly folded. Like. . . like a piece of paper? Weird. Her pockets had been empty when she put her coat on at the train station.

She pulls out the torn notebook page with a frown and opens it. The rain is already smudging the thick, sloping red print across the lines, but she can read it well enough even as the words start bleeding together.

_**Would you like to go on an adventure?**_

Lorne blinks. What the. . ? Where did this even come from? Who would have -? It clicks in another second. She whirls around to check the corner, where those two peculiar young men had vanished from. When the blond one patted her shoulder before. . . did he give this to her? Why? What does that even mean -_do you want to go on an adventure?_ Her grip tightens on the paper until she accidentally rips it.

Is he expecting her to follow along with this? Chase after them, maybe? Because she won't, no way. That would be stupid and childish and. . . and. . .

And she kind of wants to. She wants to know why he slipped this to her. She wants to know what the _hell_ he might be talking about. She wants. . . well, what she wants more than anything, really, is something that takes her away from this awful town and this miserable house, with its shadowed windows glaring down at her like the eyes of a disappointed parent.

Lorne. . . wants to go on an adventure, and admitting as much to herself fills her chest with such a vast, bitter sense of longing that it almost hurts her to breathe. She stuffs the paper back in her pocket and quickly takes off in the direction that the young men went, feeling a great deal of weight spill off her shoulders and an almost smile take to her face as she calls out for two complete and total strangers.

"Hey, wait a minute! Guys. . . wait for me!"

Yeah, this is probably the worst idea that she has ever had. And her smile stretches even bigger at the thought. How long has she been good? How long has she been making the right, responsible choices in life? God, she has never toed the line at all. Never been reckless. Never made snap decisions. She has certainly never chased after two bizarre men in the middle of a storm.

But it feels. . . it feels good. It might even feel great.

A small, not quite hysterical laugh bubbles up in her throat as she runs across the empty street. It happens fast, too fast for her to understand. A strange, wavering tear in the darkness that shimmers above the pavement -like someone took a knife and simply cut a hole into the world. A bright green light. A tightness in her stomach and a sudden, sweeping dizziness.

And then, Lorne is falling.


	2. Dreaming Awake

Thanks for the follows, everyone! And I forgot to mention in the last part that Lorne has no knowledge of _The Hobbit_ or _The Lord of the Rings_ -books, movies, or otherwise. They exist in her world, but that's about it.

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**#2. Dreaming Awake**.

She gives a start and bolts upright, then almost instantly covers her face as golden-bright rays of sunlight stab through her eyes. Where. . . where is she? What happened? Lorne squints through parted fingers, her heart trembling against her chest.

But. . . she sees. . . God -what is this place? Slowly, cautiously, she lowers her hands onto soft, springy beds of the greenest grass. Bursts of vivid color, of the most beautiful flowers, of the oddest little houses built into the sides of great, sloping hills. And. . . people. Lots of very little people with very curly hair, working in their gardens or tending to their animals or chatting with their neighbors. . .

Lorne draws in a shaky, disbelieving breath. Wherever she is. . . well, it is incredible. Absolutely incredible. Like a bustling village from a fairytale. Did those two young men lead her here? Is this what the blond one meant by an adventure? Or, could she actually be dead? Was she run down by a car or something outside her old house, and this world. . . is something like heaven?

She digs the heels of her palms into her eyes and tries to stay calm. She certainly doesn't recall being hit by anything, but, then again, she doesn't exactly remember much at all. Nothing beyond her running through the darkness, the unexpected surge of dizziness -like she were balancing over the edge of some great chasm, and then. . . that flash of brilliant green.

And nothing. She landed here, in this carefully groomed patch of herbs and wild flowers, miles away from anywhere that looks even a little familiar. Who _were_ those young men? And what the hell is going on? She frowns to herself and takes another look around. She still has her backpack with her -which is something, at least, and everything else seems to be in one mostly undamaged piece. No broken bones. . . bruises, maybe, but that's it. Also -the fence, the dainty white picket one that used to surround this particular garden, has been smashed to bits. More or less.

"Oh, dear. . ." Lorne mutters. She probably did that, didn't she?

From somewhere nearby, a door swings closed. She jerks her head up in silent alarm and glances towards the source of the noise: one of those. . . little people, for lack of a better term, has just left his grassy house. He had been walking down his steps, chewing on the end of a long, curved pipe and likely minding his own business, when he happened to look over his shoulder.

And now he is looking right at her with wide, stunned eyes beneath a loose mop of honey brownish curls, mouth agape, pipe forgotten in his hand.

Lorne tries not to blush as she holds up two hesitant fingers, giving the man a sheepish smile and a very slow, very awkward wave. "Um. . . hello. Hi, there. Sorry about, you know. . ." She gestures to the squished flowers and, of course, the splintered fence. "I didn't mean to just. . . Well, it doesn't really matter. But I can fix it!" She quickly adds, struggling to her feet. "Your fence -that's what I do: fix things, build things. . . And if you have some tools that I can borrow, I'll make an even nicer one for yah. It's the least I can do, after. . ."

At her full height, the peculiar little man still falls a few inches shorter than her waist. He gawks at her for another strained minute, and then _clicks_ his jaw shut and shakes his head, tapping his pipe against his thigh with an almost nervous energy.

"Oh, my. I'm not quite sure what to say to all of that, miss." He finally manages, with a rough clear of his throat. "But, ah. How did you honestly manage to wreck the entire fence in the first place?"

"I don't. . . know." Lorne admits, because she really, truly doesn't. "See, I'm not exactly from here. I don't even know where _here_ is."

The man abruptly snorts. "I would think not! Nowhere around these parts, anyway. Your accent is just. . ." He wrinkles his nose. "And don't get me started on your basic pronunciation of Westron, either. It's atrocious."

Um, okay. She blinks at him, brows furrowing heavily. She isn't speaking English? And what the hell is Westron?

"Might be best for you to start at the beginning." The man suggests, when her confusion becomes glaringly apparent. "And if you're going to be mending my fence, the least that _I_ can do is invite you inside for some lunch, hmm?"

Lorne keeps frowning as she watches him turn around. He marches back up his stone steps and stops at an interestingly round green door. "Well, miss?" He asks over his shoulder, a friendly lift to his lips. "Are you coming?"

"Yes, of course!" She grabs her muddied backpack and hurries after him, careful not to trample on any more of his surviving flowers. "I'm starving, actually -thank you." The last thing she ate was a train station sandwich: flavorless ham and sticky yellow cheese on thin, soggy bread. Who knows how long ago she had it, and the damn thing was hardly satisfying.

A real lunch sounds amazing, though.

The man leaves the door open for her and Lorne quickly follows him inside. She notes that his very large feet are bare as they pad across gleaming wooden floors, and not wanting to be rude to her host, she unlaces her boots and leaves them near the front with her bag. When she straightens up, or as much as she can beneath the small ceilings, her eyes start roaming through the cozy, quaint interior with quiet awe.

"Your home is beautiful!" She tells the man, unable to help the grin spreading across her face as she ducks into the kitchen.

"Oh, well. . . thank you, miss." He sounds flustered even from the next room over. "I don't usually have guests over, so, ah. Don't mind the mess, please."

What mess? Lorne has never seen a more lovely, spotless space in all of her life -including her own apartment, which she tried to keep as tidy as she could for working over forty hours a week. She stops at the table, briefly considers sitting on the floor, but the chairs look sturdy enough. And, well, if she breaks one -she can just add it to the list. She pulls out the chair near the corner, one across from the window with a postcard view of the rippling green hills and deep, endless skies. Man, having lived in a small, middle-of-nowhere town for most of her life, she can honestly say that owning a place in the country, if the country looked like this, might not be so terrible.

The small man returns a few minutes later. He sets down a full plate of triangle-cut sandwiches and a giant pitcher of lemonade, with two empty glasses, before taking the chair opposite hers.

"Wow! This looks delicious." Lorne beams. "Thanks again -and as soon as I'm done, I'll get right to work on your fence."

He watches her closely as she pours herself a generous amount of lemonade, and then she snags one of the triangles bursting with bright green lettuce and slices of vivid red tomato. She doesn't even notice her captive audience until she reaches for her glass, and her face grows warm in embarrassment beneath such an avid, dark brownish stare.

"So, an explanation, huh?" She asks weakly.

"It would be appreciated, yes." The man replies, voice dry, but his mouth curling up nonetheless as he takes a roast beef sandwich for himself. "We don't get many Big Folk wandering into the Shire, so you can imagine why I was so surprised to find you laying there in my garden."

Big Folk? The Shire? Yeah, that's. . . huh. Lorne holds in a sigh, wondering how she can put this without coming off as completely insane. This is a very nice village, and. . . she doesn't want to cause any trouble. How does she even start?

She must look more hopeless than she expected, because the man gives her a patient smile. "How about a name? You must have one of those."

A great warmth of relief floods through her at that open, honest expression on his face. Maybe. . . maybe this won't be so bad, talking to someone about this. About, not everything, of course. . . but, some things. She honestly can't remember the last time that she spoke to anyone about anything meaningful, and making friends was never very high on her list of priorities after she left high school. She had never wanted any.

"Lorne." She tells him, making another snap, uncharacteristic decision. "Lorne. . . MacGrath." It fills her with a strange, almost uplifting sensation, deciding to trust this curious little stranger. Even with something as small and personal as her last name, with _this_ particular last name.

It might not seem like much to him, a simple name. . . but to her, she feels a measure of confidence in claiming it as her own, like. . . like bands of silver-bright iron and and the strongest steel have been melted into her spine and are now filling her veins.

Lorne MacGrath. Yes, she definitely likes the sound of that.

"See? Not so hard, is it?" The man lightly teases. "Despite the current state of my gardens, it is nice to meet you, Miss MacGrath. My name is Bilbo Baggins -and welcome to Bag End." He makes a vague gesture to their surroundings as he clears his throat.

Lorne grins back. She can't help it, and the smile still lingers even while she finishes her sandwich and then reaches for another. "I should warn you. . ." She begins. "I still don't really understand how I got here."

Bilbo takes a sip from his lemonade and returns to studying her with a quiet sort of intensity. "I'm all ears, miss. And we do have the rest of the afternoon."

She nods, exhales a slow breath, and then pulls off her jacket and drapes the heavy material over the chair beside her. "A young man bumped into me on the road. I was just standing there, and he appeared. . . from out of nowhere, really." She fiddles with the thin strip of metal fastened around her wrist, her heart giving an unsteady lurch at the memory.

Sunshine blond hair and a sunshine bright smile. His strong fingers digging into her shoulder for the briefest moment.

Lorne shakes her head and quickly drinks the rest of her lemonade before continuing. "And then he apologized and was gone. He met up with another boy and they vanished together, except. . . He might have. . ." She fumbles for her coat pocket and eventually removes the torn, still rather wet shred of paper. The red ink is smeared but legible.

"I think he slipped this into my pocket before he disappeared." She admits, sliding the page to a very bemused Bilbo. "So, I. . . I ran after him and his friend. I wanted to know what was going on, yah know? Because, it was just so. . . unexpected, I guess."

She pauses as the small man unfolds the paper, and he frowns down at the one, innocent question scrawled across the lines. "It was dark, and raining." Lorne stares intently at the sentence with him, staring as if those bold red words will reveal to her the secrets of the universe. "I couldn't see where they had gone, but I kept going. I called out to them, and suddenly. . . I felt a little weird, and then, there was a flash of green light. . . and I was falling." She shrugs, a blush of embarrassment returning to the tips of her ears.

And she sounds utterly ridiculous, too. It seems even worse when you hear it out loud.

". . . so, I woke up. And here I was." She finishes, with a self-conscious mutter and a nervous swallow of her second sandwich.

Wordlessly, Bilbo gives the note back to her. His brows are drawn together beneath his curls, and he taps his index finger against his bottom lip with a deep, thoughtful face. "Well, that sure makes for a fascinating story, Miss Lorne. Did you hit your head when you fell, perhaps? And this is why you can't remember anything else?" He wonders. "And these young men you spoke of. . . they were, in fact, men?"

That is a very bizarre thing to ask, but. . . granted where she is, now, maybe. . . maybe those boys weren't human at all? Lorne frowns. What other kinds of creatures belong to this place? Were they spirits? Or faeries? Or. . ?

"I have no idea." She finally huffs, leaning back in her little wooden chair and trying not to tip it over in the process. "I thought they looked normal enough, but nothing about this situation is normal at all. I'm pretty sure that I'm not even in my own world anymore, Mister Baggins."

Saying as much seems to startle the man for a minute. He sets down his half eaten sandwich and laces his fingers over the table. "I think. . . that would be a safe bet, yes." He nods, slowly, as if trying to adjust to the idea that there could be other _worlds_ out there, beyond his own. He looks a trifle overwhelmed by the notion.

"And, please -just Bilbo is fine." He adds faintly.

"Okay, Bilbo." She beams at him. "And you can just call me Lorne." Because, he _believes_ her. He actually believes her! And, so far, he doesn't seem to think her mentally unstable or anything, either. This is going so much better than she could have ever hoped for.

A fleeting smile crosses his mouth, but the small man still appears somewhat distracted. "If this would be amenable to you, um. . ." He hesitates. "Well, ah -the fence can wait for a bit longer." He says, smoothing his hands over the table cloth, eyes darting away from hers. "I'd rather hear some more about your world, to be honest. In return, I can tell you all about the Shire and what I know of Middle-earth." He flushes a dull pink underneath his fair skin. "I wouldn't want to pry, of course. Whatever you wish to share. . ."

Oh! Wow -of all the things. . . Lorne blinks at him in surprise. She never would have guessed that he might be as curious of her as she is of him -though it does make sense.

"That sounds perfect." She grins, and helps herself to yet another sandwich. This is definitely the best lunch that she has eaten in years. "What would you like to know?"

Dark brown eyes flicker up to hers, and he grins back with sudden, blossoming excitement.

And, if she doesn't realize that she might not be able to return home as she and Bilbo trade stories. . . maybe, the fact the she could be stuck in this world forever doesn't bother her as much as it probably should.


	3. Whispering Memories

Thank you kindly for the reviews, Ae and MidnightRaven23, and to everyone else who has taken the time to read this story! This chapter is a little on the short side, but it's one of my favorites that I've written so far. We'll be back at Bag End in the next part =)

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**#3. Whispering Memories**.

She is still very small when she asks for him the first time -no more than five or six years old. A skinny, curious thing, all too fascinated with catching bugs in the backyard and counting the stars from her bedroom window, dreaming of moonlight and distant, magical lands.

"Where is he?" Lorne wonders, eyes bright with confusion as she looks up at her mother. "Why isn't he here with us? I. . ." And then her innocent gaze slides away, towards the unforgiving darkness of space through her window. "I want him to come home. Now -right now." She says, and presses her hands against the glass.

"Please, mama. Have him come home."

And her mother frowns at her from the open doorway, crossing her arms over her chest. "Who in the world are you talking about?" She wants to know, but her stare is wary, her shoulders held stiffly, as if she has been dreading this moment for a long, long while.

"Daddy." Lorne whispers to the window, and something inside her begins to hurt. Something cold and sharp. Something lost and aching. Something. . . that she doesn't quite understand. "Kids at school talk about their daddies all the time. Why don't you talk about mine, mama? Where has he gone? I want to see him."

Her mother doesn't answer her right away. In fact, she stays quiet for so long that Lorne turns back to her with a worried expression.

"Mama?" Her chest tightens at the look her mother is giving her -ice blank with bitter, twisted lips as she reaches for the doorknob.

"I don't talk about that man becase there is absolutely nothing to say." Her mother tells her, her voice crackling with anger. "He went and walked out on us months after you were born, and that was the last I heard of him. Don't worry about it, okay? Just. . . go to sleep, honey. We don't need him around."

She goes without another word and closes the door behind her, leaving Lorne standing by the edge of her bed, clutching the arm of a stuffed rabbit and feeling a prickle of tears at the corners of her eyes. She still doesn't understand.

When she is eight years old, she brings up the subject again. She wants to know his name, what he looked like. She wants to know why he left. Her mother shuts her down even quicker than she did before: a glare and a jerk of her chin while they are driving to the grocery store.

"We are not discussing him." Is all she says.

Lorne argues about it this time -because it isn't _fair_ and the man is her _father_ and she _deserves_ to know! Of course, her mother only ignores her and turns on the radio, and a lonely and frustrated little girl tries not to cry as she slides down in the back seat of their car and yanks her hood up over her head.

She doesn't take _no_ for an answer this time, though. When her mother drops her off at the house before she goes out again to meet with her new boyfriend, Lorne has the place to herself. So, she searches every room, every drawer, and every closet on every floor for _anything_ about her father. It takes hours, and she is on the verge of miserable desperation when she kicks at a few sealed boxes hidden in the depths of their old, dusty attic. The sides are labeled in heavy black marker: _books_ and _kitchen_ and other things that don't really matter to her.

But Lorne is hurt, and she is angry, and her mother never comes up here, anyways. She rips open the boxes and is prepared to smash a few dishes and tear out some pages -because who is going to know? Who is going to care? The books are first, and she blindly takes the hardcover on top of the pile and starts yanking on whatever she can grab -her pulse a hot, echoing roar inside of her ears. Bits of paper explode around her like bombs going off in the middle of a war zone. One, two, three, four. She massacres too many novels to count before she reaches the bottom of the box.

And. . . and something flutters out of the last book, clutched knuckle-white in her hands as she prepares to hurl it at the wall. It's a photograph, and. . . it turns out, the book is actually hers: a baby book, filled with a random assortment of notes and drawings and offical looking documents carefully tucked away.

Lorne feels all the fight drain from her in moments. She stares down at the back of the picture, and then she looks at her chubby, smiling face pasted to the front of the book. Suddenly, she is exhausted, rubbing away the burn of tears before they can escape as she sits down amidst the thousands of shredded paper scraps. She had no idea her mother kept a baby book. She had no idea that her mother. . . might have cared that much about her. At least, at one point in her life.

Her fingers tremble when they reach for the fallen photo. The corners are worn, not quite yellow with age. She turns it over, a little afraid of what might be printed on the other side. . . and her eyes land on two people, grinning happily at the camera.

Actually, no. That's not exactly right. Lorne sees two people -one undoubtedly being her mother when she was much, much younger, all youthful excitement and crinkled-bright blue eyes. She has two fingers held up in "bunny ears" behind the small, flat mohawk of the older man standing next to her. He isn't smiling, but his upper lip is curled into the barest hint of a smirk, and a wicked gleam from very dark, very brown eyes seems to be mocking whoever took the shot.

_David, you are such an asshole_ -is scribbled across the top of the picture in bright red.

Lorne doesn't know what to think about this. Her mother is an only child, so this man couldn't be her brother. Yet, and yet. . . oh, she knows who she _wants_ it to be, who she _hopes_ it might be. . . Her heart gives an anxious thump against her ribs as she quickly opens the baby book. If there are papers in here. . . maybe, one of them is a birth certificate? She swallows, thumbing across the heavy pages in search of his name.

_David. David. David_. . .

Her entire body stills when she flips to the back cover, where a pocket has been attached to the thin plastic. A birth certificate with her name printed on one line, above her mother. . . and above her father.

A man called David MacGrath.

Lorne chokes out a sob, tossing the baby book back into the box and then slowly picking up this one, creased photograph, this single piece of evidence that proves she does have a father. And he had a mohawk once and his eyes are dark like hers and even her nose is long and sharp like his. . . and his name is David.

And he exists.

She hears about it on the news when she is fifteen years old, one grey, cloudless morning before school. Her mother married an insurance agent eight months ago, one who considers her part of the wall more than part of the family. Lorne doesn't care. She keeps to herself mostly, so. . . it doesn't matter. None of it matters. She graduates in two years and, when she does, she is going straight to college and never looking back.

It's her usual morning fantasy, huddling on the couch over a bowl of soggy cereal -imagining how much better her life is going to be when she leaves. She is considering where she might want to rent an apartment as she waits for the weather bulletin, because there could be a storm coming later and she wants to make sure that she won't have to walk home in the pouring rain.

And the _Breaking News_ sign abruptly flashes across the screen, interrupting her thoughts. An older woman with a severe expression is staring into the camera, and she says. . .

_"We've just recieved word that three American soldiers and two British pilots have been taken hostage by a radical group of. . ."_ Terrorists, probably. Out in the Middle East, somewhere -but Lorne doesn't hear much more than a distant hum of static in her ears when images of the five men are displayed.

Owen Summers is twenty-one and he barely looks older than sixteen -a shy, dimpled smile and a shock of red hair. Barry and Brendan Belinsky are cousins, apparently. The first with a cheerful face and cropped brown hair; the second with a deadpan expression paired with dark, wary eyes. Thomas McDermott has a searing blue gaze underneath a standard military cut of black hair -he is incredibly handsome. . . and also, a little frightening.

The last man has a rugged face, a brush of salt-and-pepper stubble over his jaw, and shaved brown hair that does nothing to hide a jagged scar across his temple. His near-black eyes are squinted above a sharp-lipped sneer. And his name is David MacGrath.

Lorne doesn't realize that she has dropped her cereal bowl until she feels a wet puddle forming beneath her socks. She stares at the television until the news is over, and first period will likely be starting soon, but she can't move. She can't. . .

She looks down and her hands are shaking, and something icy slow and strange is crawling down her spine and spreading through her limbs. She keeps looking down, her eye wide and unseeing on the squished pieces of cereal stuck to the tops of her socks.

The rest of the morning passes in a disjointed blur for her. Since she found out who her father was when she was younger, she always assumed that maybe, eventually. . . some day, she would meet him. And he would be a little rough around the edges, a little gruff and a little awkward. Just like her. But, he would apologize for leaving -he would say that he had to. Maybe, his job forced him to go, or even her mother did. He had wanted to find her but couldn't, because her mother had gotten an unjust restraining order against him or whatever.

And she would reassure him that it didn't matter, since they were finally together -and _that_ was what truly counted. He would be the only family that she would ever need. But, now? Now. . .

Lorne skips school that day and locks herself in her room. She burrows underneath her scratchy wool blankets and leaves the news on her own television set for the entire afternoon, just in case there are any more updates on the soldiers. There aren't. She considers telling her mother about it, given that she really has no one else. . . but doesn't. Her mother has made it perfectly clear that she has never hated a man more than she hates her father.

She would probably blame him for getting kidnapped in the first place.

About ten months later, all five of the soldiers are declared missing in action. Lorne feels. . . she feels as if she is leaning over the edge of some great, swallowing abyss when she hears about it on the radio. Her step-dad is driving her to work that night, a late shift at the local electronics store, and she has to tell him to pull over because she is going to be sick.

God -how can she miss someone so terribly? Someone she doesn't even know? How can she ache for something that she has really never had before? Why. . . why does it _hurt_ so much?

Her step-father takes her home without a word, likely glad to just be rid of her. And her mother doesn't ask why, she just gives Lorne an unreadable look from the living room as the numb, distant girl wanders upstairs, into the darkness of her empty room. She goes to her bed, falling back onto the blankets, not bothering to turn on the lights. One hand gingerly reaches beneath her pillow, and trembling fingers curl around the corner of an old, worn photograph.

Lorne falls asleep staring out her window, counting the stars as she silently cries -a picture of a pretty young woman and a not quite smirking man clutched to her heart.


	4. Painting Flowers

**#4. Painting Flowers**.

By the time the two of them have gathered everything that she needs to start working, the sun is low in the sky and splattering dark golds and oranges across great puffs of clouds. Lorne has never seen a place as simple, as. . . peaceful, and as beautiful, as the Shire. Bilbo introduces her to a few pleasant hobbit families on their way back to Bag End -which is what the race of little people are actually called: hobbits. And she finds that utterly adorable, though she would never admit as much out loud. They are slightly wary of her, at first. Bilbo reminds her that they hardly ever have any outside visitors, but she thinks that she makes a decent first impression on them.

Hopefully, anyways. She really does like it here, and she would hate to leave so soon if the other hobbits don't feel comfortable with her around. Besides, she has nowhere else to go. Bilbo told her of a town some miles away, he called it _Bree_ -and she could probably find a room to rent there if she had to. . . But, she honestly doesn't. As exciting as it would be to go out there and explore the other realms of this Middle-earth. . . Lorne wants to stay in the Shire.

At least, for now. She wants to learn more about this world before she goes anywhere. Thankfully, Bilbo assured her that she can stay with him until she figures out what she is going to do next. And, right now, what she _is_ going to do next is fix that ruined fence. So, she pushes a borrowed wheelbarrow filled to the brim with tools, extra wood, and a few pails of white paint up the path towards Bag End.

The warm heat feels like a blessing to Lorne, compared to the cold, clammy winter that she had been returning to in her own world. She changed into her old work cargo pants and a thin t-shirt with the logo of her company sewn into the breast pocket before they set out, and she is very glad that she did. Even if her choice of clothing _did_ attract some funny looks in the process.

"Are you sure that you don't need any help?" Bilbo frowns, watching her organize her suppplies from his step. "I could always ask. . ."

"No, I'm good. Really, Bilbo." She flashes him a smile and shades her squinting eyes against the sunshine. "I broke it, so. I should be the one to do this. Now, the flowers. . . I'm not really into the whole gardening thing, but I'll do what I can to repair whatever damaged I've caused. Maybe, I could, um. . ." She hesitates as she flips on her sunglasses, which has Bilbo staring at her in wonderment while she surveys the ruined stocks and tiny shrubs.

"I could. . . plant something for you?" She doubtfully suggests.

Really, she should do _something_ extra for how wonderfully the hobbit has been treating her. If there are some other colored paints she could get a hold of. . .

"Oh, no. No, that's quite all right." Bilbo shakes his head and gives her a quirk of a smile back. "I do enjoy planting things, myself. I can do that when you're finished." He scrunches his nose, motioning oddly to his face. "May I ask. . ?"

They covered a strange variety of topics over lunch about their clashing cultures, but the simple things from _her_ Earth still seem to baffle him. Lorne chuckles as she hefts a rather nice hammer into her left hand -even if it is a bit on the smaller side than what she is used to working with.

"Protection, from the sunlight." She explains, arching her eyebrows over the top of her sharp black Wayfarers. "Reflective, tinted pieces of glass -that's it."

"Ah." Bilbo says, though he watches her with his usual, innate curiosity for another moment before he nods. "I'll, um. I'll have tea ready in a few hours. If you need anything, don't hesitate to come and fine me, Miss Lorne. I won't be far."

She gives him something part wave, part salute, and then he disappears back into Bag End. With a slow, deep lungful of fresh air, and a ridiculous smile on her face, Lorne slings the blue hammer through the loop in her pants and grabs the shovel from the wheelbarrow.

It feels almost too good to work like this again -beneath the glowing yellow sun with sweat in her eyes and dirt catching under her nails. Oh, her muscles start to burn from the continued exertion around the third hour, but the sensation is a sweet, lingering ache in her arms and lower back -a rewarding soreness that she has missed bitterly in these last four months. She will definitely be paying for her enthusiasm tomorrow, but Lorne can hardly bring herself to care.

Because, this is the happiest that she has felt in. . . well, ages, most likely. And she deserves a little bit of happiness right now -however brief it might prove to be.

Bilbo returns to his steps just as the sun is beginning to sink through a smear of bleeing pink and reddish hues. He sets down a tray of tea and biscuits and beckons for Lorne to join him, please, or she will likely catch heat stroke -and he certainly won't be able to drag her inside if she does.

Lorne snorts her amusement, wiping the back of her hand across her dripping brow before she sits down next to the hobbit. He wrinkles his nose as he offers her a dainty cup with flowers swirled around the rim, and his brows crease even further with distate when she smudges the pristine white with mud.

"Sorry." She grimaces. "I'm kind of a mess."

"Yes, well -I suppose dishes can be cleaned." Bilbo tells her, his tone wry and long-suffering. "So long as you don't break any of them."

She grins and takes a sip of the warm, lavender blend. Really, tea isn't. . . she doesn't like coffee much, either, but she isn't going to be rude and refuse his kindness. Besides, anything soothing to drink is welcome at the moment.

"Oh, would you look at that!" His brown eyes widen, suddenly noticing her progress in delighted surprise. His garden is a decent size, and she has only finished staking more than half of the perimeter, but Bilbo must not have been expecting her to work so quickly.

"It's quite a skill you have, there." He tells her, a clear trace of admiration in his voice. "I reckon once my neighbors see this, they'll be asking you to fix up their fences, next!"

Lorne feels her grin stretch from ear to ear. She slouches automatically, shoulders bowing, her chin ducking at the praise. How long has it been since she has heard such a compliment, from such an earnest face? Pleasure bubbles up through her veins, sure and strong enough to burst past her lips in an embarrassed chuckle.

"Hey, I'll do whatever I can to help out around here." She rubs her free hand over the back of her neck and shrugs, but her smile is big and toothy and probably bordering on idiotic.

"I would watch what you say about that, you know." Bilbo shakes a teasing finger at her. "If those Boffins and Proudfeet ever heard you volunteering your services away, they'd put you to work for good!"

She bites into one of the soft, flaky vanilla biscuits and tries not to spit out any crumbs as she laughs. "Heh -thanks for the warning. I'll keep that in mind."

The hobbit makes a satisfied noise and grabs himself a chocolate biscuit, and they clear the whole plate of buttery snacks and drink the entire pot of tea in what must be record timing. It is getting rather late, though, and Lorne pushes her sunglasses onto her head just as a film of hazy purple shadows begins to fall across the hills.

"Man, I was hoping to at least finish the outer part today." She frowns, squinting towards the garden in disappointment.

"I'm sure that everything will still be waiting for you tomorrow." Bilbo gently assures her, his mouth twitching. He stands up with the empty tray and elbows open his round green door. "Come along, Miss Lorne. I believe you need to wash up, and I'll find some blankets for you to use tonight. . ."

Lorne unlaces her dirtied boots before she ducks into Bag End after him, more grateful than words can express for his continued hospitality. On Earth, people just aren't. . . they aren't like this anymore. Granted, she doubts that the rest of Middle-earth would have been this kind to her, as well, and once again finds herself counting her lucky stars for landing in the Shire, rather than anywhere else.

It takes forever for her to find room to change in the tiny bathroom, and even longer to scrub all of the mud and sweat from her skin, but she does eventually join Bilbo in the parlor by the unlit fire place -looking clean and pinkish and slightly more presentable than she was before. She takes a seat in one of the armchairs, which she. . . kind of fits in, if only because she has a rather lanky frame, and sets her backpack down between her knees.

Bilbo is reading a thick, leather book in the chair across from hers, and he peers over the top of the pages at her as she tries to sort through what she managed to bring with her.

"Goodness, do you always travel so heavily?" He muses, when she tosses out a few pairs of socks and a numerous band t-shirts.

"Um, no. I usually don't." Lorne mutters, the back of her neck warming underneath his scrutiny. "I was. . . I had to leave my house." She admits, with a dull stab between her ribs. "I couldn't afford to live there anymore, and I had all my things packed and ready to go when I landed here. Guess that was fortunate, huh?" She adds, voice unconsciously flat as she shoots the hobbit a lopsided smile -a shell of hollow amusement.

Why not tell him the truth? And it isn't as if leaving her apartment was her fault. . . or even her choice. Even though it is still a little painful to think about. The first thing that was ever truly _hers_ in her life, and she had to give it up. She should have expected nothing less.

His expression drops alarmingly fast. "Oh, my. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. . ." He rubs at his nose with a rather fancy, embroidered handkerchief. "I'm sorry, that's. . . quite horrible, actually."

She shrugs. "Don't worry about it. I wasn't in a very good place back in my world. And, I've got to tell yah. . . I'm in a much better place here." Her grin comes a little easier this time and it brings a small, pleased one to Bilbo's face, too.

"Good! Good, then." He nods. "Happy to be of help, Miss Lorne. . ." He seems to consider returning to his book, but she keeps pulling other objects from her bag: her I-pod and her old Gameboy Color, industrial pocket-flashlights and a few spare lighters, and even a case of her favorite drill bits. Obviously, these are items that he has never encounted before, and his inquisitive nature finally gets the best of him.

"What _are_ those things?" He forgets about the book and leans forward in his chair, gazing over the growing pile of odds and ends with twitching fingers.

Lorne glances up at the hobbit, and then climbs down from her own seat to relax on the floor. "I can show you." She offers. It will serve as a nice distraction, if anything. A good way to pass the time before dinner. Besides, the broad smile that lights his face in response is almost enough to drive the remnants of the storm clouds from her mind.

It helps her try to forget about them, anyways. And it isn't very hard for her to start laughing when Bilbo joins her, and she tells him to put on her headphones and listen. God -when the music begins to play, his wary expression morphs into one of stunned, priceless awe. Her mood continues to steadily improve from there, sharing whatever she can find with her new companion. She helps him cook dinner an hour or two later, and then the two of them stay up late into the night after their hearty meal, with Bilbo recounting stories of elves and dwarves and a terrfying evil that holds Lorne utterly enraptured.

The following day, she rises even before the sun to complete the fence. When Bilbo finds her out in his gardens later, the fence is glistening in the early, buttery light, strong and straight and a pristine shade of white. And yet. . . it didn't feel like enough, so Lorne managed to find the hobbit house that they bartered the paint pails from, yesterday. Thankfully, the hobbit she meets there remembers her, and Lorne is able to trade some of her loose pocket change to the curious woman for a few other colors.

So, when Bilbo pauses on his stone steps, still in his patchwork bathrobe and yawning sleepily around a steaming mug of tea, she is splattered from head to toe in a mess of brilliant shades and grinning up at him -almost as brightly as the sunshine itself.

"What do you think?" She asks, wringing her rainbow-stained hands anxiously.

Bilbo blinks at her, and then blinks at the fence. It takes him a moment, but when it hits him, his eyes grow absurdly wide beneath his mess of curls. "Oh. . . oh, my." He says, quickly moving to her side for a better look. "Why, this is. . . that. . ." He splutters.

"I hope the ends of those sentences are good." She jokes.

He doesn't answer her, seemingly speechless as he goes to the fence. She watches him trace his fingers over the whirls of color that spring up from the bottoms of each post -abstract paintings of flowers that she recalled clearly from her own world, and not nearly as life-like as the real things. . . but, she hopes they look close enough.

"This is. . . beautiful." The hobbit eventually manages, clearing his throat and shuffling through the grass to see the other side. "I'm just overwhelmed, Miss Lorne. You have truly outdone yourself. I've never seen anything so lovely before."

He beams at her, and Lorne knows that her own expression is the stupidest thing that she has probably ever worn. She can feel the stubborn pull of her ridiculous, toothy smile to the point of it being almost painful. Well. . . considering that she has honestly done more grinning and laughing in the last twenty-four hours than in the previous ten _years_ of her life, the discomfort might be a expected, but entirely worth it all the same.

Even the frustration of scrubbing all of this damn paint off of herself will be worth it, because Bilbo suddenly calls one of his neighbors over, and that one shouts to another, and now there is quite the small gathering of hobbits clustered around his fence. And then, a few of the bolder ones start asking her questions about her available _services_ and such, and she is both pleased and horribly embarrassed by this turn of events.

Somehow, by the time she and Bilbo sit down for breakfast inside Bag End, Lorne is sporting an absolutely dumbfounded face at the prospect of three more jobs around the Shire and her hobbit is chortling at her.

"See? I told you that would happen." He teases, passing her a knife for the strawberry jam. "None of them could resist the lure of your craftsmanship!"

She spreads some of the preserves over her toast with unconscious fervor, until there is no bread left to be seen underneath the red. "I was sort of hoping. . . but I didn't think. . ." She shakes her head. "I didn't think that they would take to me so quickly! I mean, I only met. . . Man, I don't even remember who I met the other day." She admits, dropping the knife and burying her blushing face inside her hands. "I'm not sure if I can handle all of this."

Bilbo laughs, and she peeks at him through parted fingers with a grin. Lorne honestly believed the other hobbits would ask her to leave. She saw how they watched her, their suspicious frowns and lingering gazes when they went out yesterday, and now. . . Now -they actually want her to help them around their own houses!

Really, this is the perfect way to thank them for allowing her to stay in the Shire.

"Nonsense." Her hobbit wrinkles his nose. "You'll be able to handle everything just fine. And why wouldn't they take to you? You're a very likeable person, you know."

Lorne almost chokes on her toast. "Oh, wow -that's a first." She snorts, and quickly gulps down some of her tea to hide her deepening blush. "I mean, um. . . thank you?"

Bilbo heaves a rather dramatic sigh and casts his eyes to the ceiling, but fails to hide the flare of amusement in their depths. "Don't make me change my mind about it." He warns, but then shoots her a sly smile as he offers out the plate of various cheeses. "These go quite well with the jam." He insists. "Go on, have a piece."

"Well, if they go with the jam." She raises an eyebrow. "How can I refuse?"

"You can't." He sniffs.

Naturally, Lorne is beginning to realize that refusing Bilbo much of anything is going to be pretty difficult -if not, entirely impossible. She takes a slice of cheese and the hobbit hums his obvious approval.

He's right, of course. This type of cheese goes perfectly with the strawberry jam.


	5. Breaking Walls

Thank you so much for the review, Ilu! I truly appreciate the feedback, and I'm even happier that you like Lorne and how the story is progressing so far! Another big thanks to everyone else who has just started following or added this to their favorites! Now. . .

A Brief Note: I love character development/character relationships, if that wasn't obvious =) so this might be a rather long story. Hopefully, no one minds.

A Second Note: We will finally start meeting the dwarves in the next chapter (excitement!). I hope you enjoy this one in the mean time (it's still important!).

A Tiny Third Note: I'll accept any sort of comments and critiques if you guys have them! They really help =)

ooo OOO ooo OOO ooo

**#5. Breaking Walls**.

She has her first nightmare during her fourth week of staying at Bag End.

Now, Lorne is no stranger to having bad dreams. When she was younger, maybe nine or ten years old, she used to scream herself awake at least two or three times a week with bizarre, confusing images of fire and darkness scattering through her head, and the deafening roar of gunfire heavy in her ears.

Usually, she can never tell where she is. Everything is black and thick -not exactly a fog, and more like drowning than anything else. She calls for someone to find her, yelling out names she can never remember, half-formed on her lips in wild desperation when she bolts upright among her piles of blankets. Eyes wide and unseeing, her heart frozen against her throat.

This nightmare is different, though. And not good, different, either. In fact, it might even be the worst one that she has ever had, because everything is. . . so much _clearer_, so much _louder_. And everyone is dying.

Again, Lorne has no idea where she is, but the crumbling bits of stone falling down around her look like the remnants of some great, powerful city collapsing into dust. She ducks, tries to cover her head as people run and cry and scream in terrible panic. God -what the hell is going on? Who is attacking them?

She pushes her way through the crowds and looks to every blurring face, to every pair of black, stricken eyes. She has to make sure, she has to know. . . what? What is she searching for? And who is she hoping to see in this chaos?

A young boy is standing in the shadows around the corner. He grabs her sleeve when she almost stumbles past his hiding place, his dark curls matted with sweat and streaks of soot smudged across his cheeks. He almost seems familiar. This. . . this almost seems familiar, too.

But it isn't. Because it can't be. . . right?

"Wait!" The boy tells her, pressing something cold and heavy into her hands. "You can't forget this. You're going to need it."

Lorne looks down just as the boy melts into the rock, and a long, black metal spear is clutched between her shaking white knuckles. A spear? No, no. . . it's something. . . something a little more important. An explosion rips through the earth and her chin jerks back up, and all around her the stone is turning to wood, to tall, flaming houses built on supports above the water.

A monstrous darkness blankets the world, whipping up a fierce, frothing wind that nearly blows out her eardrums. What the. . ? She breaks into a clumsy sprint along the boardwalks and holds tight to her spear. And the darkness, it laughs at her: a low, grinding rumble that she can feel down to the very roots of her teeth. It hurts -the heat, the noise, the running, her entire body. It hurts, and she can't breathe, and she doesn't know where she is or why she has this weapon or who she needs to find. . . but, she _does_ know that she has to keep going.

She has to keep running. She has to survive. There are others counting on her, somewhere. Beyond the ash and the death and the awful, shattering laughter -there is fresh air and there is bright sunlight and there is _hope_ waiting for her with outstretched arms. If only she could reach it -!

A little girl screams. A man yells for his family to hide. A building topples over and crashes into the water with a thick _hiss_ of smoke, and. . .

Lorne feels her boots catch on the unsteady terrain and everything lurches sideways. For the first time in. . . well, ever, maybe, she hears a desperate voice calling out _her_ name amidst the destruction. But she can't answer. She can only watch in mute horror as the lake before her shines and burns, and then her vision is turning green and the world is gone.

Thankfully, she doesn't wake screaming -but she does wake up flailing and drenched in sweat and generally thinking that she must be drowning in that fiery lake as the waves tumble, thick and suffocating, over her head. Only, they aren't waves at all -just the blankets that Bilbo is letting her borrow while she stays at his house. She sleeps on the floor, because she doesn't exactly fit on the guest bed. . .

"God!" She gasps out, ripping the fabric away from her face and gulping down a few choking mouthfuls of warm, clean air. Not ash. Not smoke. And not water. Yes, thank whoever might be listening up there that it isn't _water_.

It takes a long time for her to calm down, even wrapped inside the quiet, reassuring safety of Bag End. She obviously can't go back to sleep. . . or won't, not if it means returning to that city while it falls to ruin, or that town while it succumbs to fire. She can still taste the hot, rotten breeze congealing at the back of her throat. And when she rubs at her eyes, they still sting, tear, and burn from the harshness of the mixing temperatures.

The rest of the strange, hazy images drift away as the sun begins to rise, but. . . Lorne can't help feeling that they were important -that she should be trying harder to remember something other than rocks and flames and. . . whatever.

Or, hang on. She had something in her hands, didn't she? Her gaze automatically drops to where her clammy, twitching fingers are digging into woollen fabric bunched over her knees. Something, but what? What could have been so damn important that she would have actually _died_ trying to accomplish it? That part doesn't make any sense. She would never have. . . would she? Why?

"Lorne! Lorne, Aunt Mirabella is here!" Bilbo calls. "She was wondering if you could have a look at her gate this morning. It won't stay closed, you see, and even the smallest breeze can send the darn thing knocking against her house. . ."

Lorne exhales a rattling breath. "I'll be out soon! I just have to. . . get dressed." She shouts back, slowly beginning to untangle herself from the forest of blankets. "And try not to die a little on the inside in the process." She mutters.

But, no. There is no reason for her to let that dream ruin her whole day. Besides, she is pretty fond of Aunt Mirabella. Working on her gate should be fun, and she could even give it a new coat of paint, too. Which is usually how you can expect her to look if you spot her around the Shire, and she is certainly easy to pick out. If her towering height doesn't draw your eye amidst all of the hobbits, well, the rainbow-splattered cargo pants and the screwdriver stuck through the small, sandy brownish knot of hair at the back of her neck will probably do it.

Even the fauntlings are starting to approach her, now that their parents are more comfortable with her continued presence here. Lorne thinks the little hobbit children are adorable, of course, but she has never really been one for. . . kids in general. When she has some materials left over from her jobs, though, she cobbles together figurines of elves, dwarves, and hobbits for them to play with. And she paints those, too -which they seem to greatly enjoy.

Really, the only thing that matters to her is that, hopefully, she is starting to earn her place in their little town. The ominous unease of her nightmare will fade. It always does.

Lorne washes up and gets dressed and ducks into the sitting room, where Bilbo is waiting for her with a cup of tea and a warm smile. "Good morning." He hands her a mug from the tray set beside his armchair and she takes it gratefully.

The taste of it is growing on her, to be honest.

"Aunt Mirabella just left." He continues, chewing absently on the end of his pipe. "She said that you can drop by whenever you have a moment -no rush."

"Oh, okay. Yeah, I'll be over. . . um, soon." She drains her tea and grabs a slice of toast from the tray, as well. Brown eyes follow her with unblinking shrewdness, eyes that she tries to ignore when she sits down on the floor to lace up her work boots, toast between her teeth.

Does she look that terrible?

". . . are you all right?"

That answers that, then. Lorne glances up, smiling wryly at the worried hobbit. He blows out a stream of smoke, thick and grassy as it curls through the air, but his gaze is still fixed on her.

"I'm fine." She assures him, after quickly choking down her breakfast. Not that she has much of an appetite or anything, not with the lingering burn of rot and ash in her mouth. The tea helps, sweet blackberry or strawberry or something. . . but she can't get rid of that horrible taste completely. Even chugging the whole mugful and scalding the skin right off of her tongue in a last-ditch attempt doesn't work.

Bilbo frowns. He doesn't believe her, of course. Though he doesn't press the matter, either, which she is thankful for.

"Really, I'm okay." She insists, climbing back to her feet. "I just fell asleep late last night. That loose gate shouldn't take me long to fix, but I told the Bolgers that I'd stop by their place in the Eastfarthing. . . I think -right? They live out there?" She doesn't even wait for Bilbo to reply as she reaches for the door. "So, I'll probably be gone for most of the afternoon. I'll, um. . . I'll be back sometime later, yeah?"

And Lorne darts outside before the hobbit can answer, trying to ignore the prickle of guilt that stabs just beneath her breastbone. She doesn't want to talk about the dream. Not with anyone, not quite yet. Not until she can at least make some damn _sense_ out of what the hell she saw.

If she ever can, that is.

By nightfall, Lorne is finally finished. The gate was an easy fix, but it turns out that the Bolgers needed quite a bit of work done on their animal pens, more than she had previously estimated. The repairs and adjustments kept her hands busy, though, and her mind dutifully occupied, so she was able to. . . well, not forget about the dream. There were just other things to focus on, and that helped.

"Hey -I'm back!" She announces, as she kicks off her boots on the steps of Bag End. Instead of heading straight into the house, though, she hesitates.

Around her, darkness has fallen in warm, swollen purple sheets. Little fireflies dance across the hillside like glowng yellow pinpricks, and above. . . above her, goodness. The sight of the vastness of space hanging over the Shire never ceases to amaze her -especially at night. How deep and black the skies turn, how close the stars seem in comparison to her own world. How silvery and brilliant and beautifully _strange_ they appear, untouched by smog, or light pollution. . .

God, it feels like. . . if she were to only stretch out her fingertips. . .

Bilbo discovers her out there about twenty minutes later. She climbed the grassy knoll over Bag End and is just. . . laying there on the ground, bare feet snug into the dirt, hands folded across her stomach and her wide eyes drinking in the heavens.

"Oh, hello. I thought I heard you come back." The hobbit muses. He rocks on his heels as he follows her gaze up, up, and up. "Would it be all right if I joined you?"

"Sure. I just. . . I couldn't help myself." Lorne admits, glad for the cover of shadows to hide her awkward blush. "I used to love doing this when I was a kid. I would stay outside for hours and watch the stars, connect my own constellations, and pretend -well, hope, really, that. . ."

Without even thinking about it, she abruptly bites her tongue. A hot flood of shame washes through her, something that she desperately tries to hide from her face as she turns away from his soft, inquiring brown eyes. Because no one wants to listen to things like that. No one ever has, which is why, more often than not. . . she would simply keep quiet when she was younger.

It was easier that way, when she realized that her mother never honestly cared about what she had to say. When she realized that talking about aliens and magical lands and shooting stars was only interesting to her.

When she realized that, no matter how hard she tried to explain her theories about space or time travel, she would be spoken over or interrupted because aliens aren't _real_ and there isn't anything else _out there_ and I don't want to _hear_ about any of this, Lorne, I don't have the _time_ right now. . .

"Hoping, what?" Bilbo sits down beside her -his voice quiet, gently prompting when she stays silent and uncomfortable. "What were you hoping for?"

The corners of her eyes prickle in warning. Lorne swallows, and the brightness of the stars slowly begins to vanish behind a thin, watery film. "It doesn't matter." She mutters, quickly rubbing away the sting when she sits up. "But. . . I want you to know that I'm happier here than I ever was, or probably ever would have been, in my own world. Honestly, I am."

She takes a wavering breath, her usually confident smile even shakier as she draws her knees to her chest. But, she still tries. It's all that she can do, really.

And Bilbo tries, too. He taps the back of her hand with strong, steady fingers. "I'm glad you are, Lorne." He nods. "And I would like _you_ to know that, well. . . if there is ever anything bothering you, or anything you want to talk about, I will listen." He promises, and his expression is open, earnest, with a flicker of unflinching steel beneath his quirk of a smile.

"I enjoy your company, you know." He tells her. "You are the most interesting thing that has ever happened to my life -truly! And I _never_ want you to feel as if what you wish to share is silly, or boring, or pointless. Because it isn't, and it won't be. Everything you have to say is important -do you hear me?" He pats her hand again, more firmly this time. "Anything and everything."

Lorne stares at him. God, she has never been very good at speaking about how she feels. These deep emotions are messy and complicated and. . . and things she would rather not deal with. She doesn't like the exposure, how _vulnerable_ only a few, kind words can leave her.

Like this. Like right now. Like huddling beside this man who is smaller than half of her height, and yet sinking through her skin and trembling before him as if she were a child again. Oh, she doesn't know what to say. She doesn't. . . know, what to do.

She's afraid that she might just split right open if she says even a single word.

"Now -you said that you like space? Star patterns. . . constellations, you called them?" Her hobbit continues, scooting closer, his shoulder a comforting weight pressing against her side. "I don't know very many, but I can show you the ones that I have learned. If you'd like." He offers, and another one of his brilliant smiles has her grinning back automatically, a weak chuckle punching from her mouth and a spark of warmth striking between her ribs.

"Yes, please." Lorne whispers. "I would like that."

. . . and thank you, she wants to say. Thank you for taking me in. Thank you for being here now. Thank you. . . for being my friend. But, she can't. And that's okay, because Bilbo is gazing at her with something that can only be described as absolute fondness in his eyes. . . and, maybe, words aren't really needed at all.


	6. Interrupting Strangers

Wow! I can't believe how many reviews I got for the last part! Thank you, everyone -it's very appreciated! And, to be honest, I am leaning a bit more towards an OC/Bard story (thanks for the input, Carly Carnations; they do seem like they would be a good fit) but nothing is really for certain yet.

I also had to split this chapter in half, since it kind of got away from me. . . So, the next two or three parts are going to be a little longer than usual =)

Enjoy!

ooo OOO ooo OOO ooo

**#6. Interrupting Strangers**.

Time passes in a strange blur of ups and downs in the Shire. Some weeks, when she is kept busy amongst the hobbits, Lorne watches them disappear without a blink. Other weeks almost seem to crawl by, though, as summer gradually slips into autumn, and then winter, and then spring and into summer yet again. She loves the Shire, she really and truly does. . .

But, lately? After a whole year has finally passed her by, the rolling green hills and the thick, glowing patches of wild flowers are beginning to feel. . . a little too tight around her -a little too small. The days that she has to herself, she spends pouring over the books that Bilbo has in his vast collection. She can only read the ones in Westron, since the sharp print looks like English to her, but the stories are incredible. Good and evil. War and romance. Elves and dwarves. She eats up everything that she can get her hands on and is always hungry for more.

And at night, despite the warm meals and wonderful company that Bilbo always provides, Lorne goes to bed feeling an uncomfortable twist of unease and restlessness in the pit of her stomach, either for the gloomy nightmares of smoke and shadow and haunted faces that continue to plague her, or for something else.

Something deeper. . . and more confusing. Something without words; something that fills her with such a fierce, inexplicable _ache_ when she rises every morning. . . And she doesn't know why.

Lorne comes close to telling Bilbo a dozen or a hundred times about this, but she still doesn't like talking about. . . personal things. Sure, she has gotten somewhat better at it, thanks to the hobbit and his constant well of patience and good humor. She has no doubt shared more with him than with anyone else in her life, ever.

But this feels different, and she doesn't know why that is, either. She doesn't even know what she means by _different_ -but it just, is. And mostly, she tries to ignore it. Some days are easier than others.

Today is not one of them. Thought, it starts out well and normal enough. She is lounging in the sitting room, squished into an armchair, and her nose is buried in a Middle-earth history text. She would have actually been reading outside -lounging beneath the towering trees in the Eastfarthing Woods is one of her favorite places to relax -but she's still recovering from an unpleasant sunburn that she received the previous week. Her nose, ears, the back of her neck, and both of her arms are reddish and peeling. . . and, yeah. She really doesn't want to exacerbate them any more than they already are.

Bilbo made her slather herself in aloe this morning to soothe the worst of the itching, which at least helps to distract her from the ever-present knot in her stomach as she tries to read.

And then, speaking of said hobbit, he suddenly bursts into Bag End and quickly locks the door behind him, looking more than a little ruffled about. . . something.

Lorne glances over the edge of her book with raised eyebrows, watching him scramble to one of the front windows and peer out the frosted glass with a nervous, coiled energy to his movements. Man, he doesn't even get this worked up when the Sackville-Baggins come around for their nagging visits.

"Are you okay-?" She frowns, but instantly chomps down on her tongue and nearly falls out of her chair when a giant, looming face appears behind his. "Holy shit!" She squeaks, and Bilbo trips into the kitchen as fast as he can manage, his eyes huge with disbelief.

Thankfully, the giant face disappears within seconds, but. . . still! What the hell was that? Or, more importantly -_who_ the hell was that?

"Are we expecting anyone today?" She finally asks, having dropped her book somewhere in the strange. . . whatever the hell just happened.

"No!" The hobbit squawks. "I mean, I don't. . ." He shakes out his curls in bewilderment and joins her in the sitting room. "I don't think so. That was. . . that was just. . ." He wrinkles his nose, hands on his hips, and then simply drops down into the chair across from hers.

"It was just odd, I suppose." He sighs. "Probably the oddest thing to happen since you fell into my garden, actually." This he adds with a wry smile and Lorne rolls her eyes.

"Are you going to explain, or should I guess?" She snorts.

"Well, that's the thing." Bilbo says. "I _can't_ explain it, not really. This man approached me, a Big Person, like you, dressed in these grey robes with a staff and a pointed hat. I know." He huffs, when Lorne gives him this incredulous look.

Because, a staff and a pointed hat? Yeah, some of the stories that she has come across in his library mention _wizards_ -but, here? In the Shire?

"His name is Gandalf -the Wandering Wizard, we called him." The hobbit continues, rubbing at the small, crinkled space between his furrowed brows. "He makes amazing fireworks, too. But, um. He asked me -and he mentioned you, as well, by the way- to. . . go on an adventure with him." He sort of mumbles the last part with no small amount of awkwardness as he drops his gaze to his feet.

And Lorne stares at him, her heart giving this weak, spluttering lurch into her ribs at the mention of the _a_ -word, which honestly hasn't been brought up in Bag End since that fateful day one year ago, when she showed Bilbo a damp piece of paper with a very fascinating question on it. And she thought that living in the Shire would be adventure enough. Which it had been, for a time.

But, now. . .

She finds herself sitting up in her chair and almost knocking her head against the shelves behind her. God -an adventure, with a wizard! A real-live wizard, who can do magic and everything! She is practically vibrating in her excitement and failing horribly at trying to hide it, but it doesn't take very long for her to deflate again.

Not once she realizes that her hobbit is failing to meet her eyes, and is tapping his fingers in a rather jerky motion on the arms of his chair. Because. . . she hasn't lived in Bag End for a year without learning a great deal about her best friend -which might include his severe dislike for anything dirty or dirt-related on his floors, the improper placement of the dishware in the cabinets. . .

And the small fact that he would never, _ever_ want to go on something as muddy, dangerous, and unpredictable as an adventure.

"So. . . you refused the offer very nicely, and then ran into the house and locked the door." Lorne surmises, slumping back down into her under-sized chair. She keeps her voice as light as possible, though, because Bilbo won't stop fidgeting and fumbling for his pipe -and she really doesn't want to make him feel bad.

She would never force the poor guy into doing anything that made him this uncomfortable, anyways. It's not the end of the world if he hates adventures. . . it just makes for a pretty boring one, that's all. No big deal.

"Did this wizard happen to mention how he knew I was staying here?" She wonders, attempting to curb her overwhelming sense of disappointment. "It's not like I've ever left the Shire or anything. Could word have really traveled that far between the other towns?"

Bilbo shakes his head again. "I'm not sure. The closest village, as you know, is Bree, and hobbits rarely venture there at all. It is a little curious. . ."

Lorne absently scratches at her neck, and then winces at the blunt lance of discomfort flaring up beneath her skin. She honestly forgets about the damn sunburn every so often and ends up itching at it somewhere, anyways.

The hobbit narrows his eyes at her. "Is it still bothering you?"

"Only when I remember that it's there." She grunts. "Do you have anymore of that aloe stuff? It really helped, earlier."

"I believe so, yes. Goodness, what in the world am I going to do with you?" He scoffs, not quite with a smirk as he motions for her to follow him into the kitchen. "Perhaps another game of chess, hmm? I thought you mentioned something about a re-match after you lost the last round so spectacularly?"

Lorne ducks beneath the swinging chandelier, scowling. "Excuse me? I lost with _grace_ and _dignity_, thank you very much. Considering I hadn't played chess since I was a kid, I think I did pretty well. Two out of five isn't _that_ bad."

"On that last game, you knocked the board over and delcared it a tie -even when I had more than half of your pieces captured!"

"What? I did not! You had the window open and there was this gust of wind. . ."

Bilbo shoots her a mildly affronted look, and then promptly dissolves into giggles. Of course, the mere fact that the hobbit _giggles_ is enough to send her over the edge, too. Besides, Lorne has this feeling that he needs a distraction, that. . . that his meeting with this wizard honestly upset him to some degree. If her losing a dozen more chess matches puts his mind at ease, well. She will be more than willing to lend a hand.

"Fine, fine. A re-match, then." She pretends to grumble, as he breaks off another stem from a strange, bright green plant that almost reminds her of rather fat spider legs growing from the dirt. She slides a bowl underneath the stem when Bilbo snaps it in half, allowing a clear, thick liquid to ooze into the dish.

"Well, that depends." The hobbit sniffs. "Should I keep an eye out for another untimely interruption from the elements if I agree?"

Lorne adopts a very, very serious expression. "Oh -of course not, Master Baggins. I don't know why you would even suggest such a thing!"

So, after rubbing an unfortunate amount of aloe over the worst of the burns, she helps set up the board at the kitchen table -the only place that they can play where she fits, to be honest. And the remainder of their pleasant afternoon is spent squabbling over game after game of extreme chess, and it is wonderful.

But, she still can't help thinking. . . about what it might have been like. If Bilbo had said _yes_ to the wizard. If she had met Gandalf, herself. If they had all gone on an adventure, together. And she tries to ignore the heavy soreness weighing against her chest as she wonders, because she will probably never know.

About three more applications of aloe and a dozen games of chess later, Lorne has officially given up. Her burns certainly look and feel better than they have all week, but she is just. . . absolutely _miserable_ at playing chess. Bilbo finally takes pity on her after her fifth straight loss, declares himself famished, and decides that they should have dinner soon.

"It's probably for the best." She agrees loftily, burnishing her nails against the front of her shirt. "I was only lulling you into a false sense of complacency, anyways. The next five games were going to be all mine."

The hobbit chuckles as he heads into the pantry. "Oh, I don't doubt it! You've been showing quite a bit of improvement. I reckon you almost had me, with that last match." She can hear the laughter in his voice even from the dining room.

". . . jerk." She mumbles under her breath, her smile displaying a rare glimpse of affection that no one is around to see.

Not one for cooking, at least, nothing more complicated than grilled cheese sandwiches, Lorne mainly tries to stay out of the way as Bilbo fixes them up some fish. She pushes any and all musings of wizards and adventures far from her head in the process, because -what's the point? She can still escape through books, and, maybe. . . she might even venture into Bree one of these days.

That will just have to be enough.

"Hey, this looks. . . ah. Hmm." She falters, cautiously eyeing the dead fish staring up at her from the plate that Bilbo is holding out. Yeah, sure -she may have had over a year to get used to the way things are done in the Shire, but. . . sometimes, she forgets how truly different hobbits and people can be.

Such as the way fish are prepared, and the fact that it looks like her dinner is going to wiggle onto the table and then flop right to the floor.

She takes the plate after a good, long moment, but isn't quite sure on how to proceed with it.

Bilbo snorts and passes her a lemon slice. "Come on. It won't bite, I promise you."

"I'm going to hold you to that." Lorne points her fork at him. And, just as she is about to ask for the salt shaker, there is a faint ringing from the doorbell. She stops. Bilbo stops. And they both look to one another, before their eyes stray towards the front of the house.

Could it be. . ? Oh, she doesn't want to hope. She tries not to even remember his name as the hobbit wrinkles his nose, confusion battling with annoynace in his expression. But. . . maybe it is. Maybe, Gandalf has come back to insist that they go along on this adventure with him -that he won't take _no_ for an answer!

"Guess I should get that." Bilbo finally mutters.

Lorne nods blankly as her fork hovers in some undecided ground between her mouth and her plate. When the hobbit hurries to the door, the tails of his patchwork bathrobe fluttering in his wake, she drops her silverware and cranes her head to peer around the corner, her heart beating a thick, unsteady rhythm against her throat.

Please be the wizard; _please_ be the wizard. . !

Whoever it is, Bilbo sounds more perplexed than ever as he greets them. So, not the wizard. A rough voice answers the hobbit, a brief: _Dwalin, at your service_ -and then a heavy pair of boots can be heard stomping over the wooden floors. Towards the kitchen, actually, and Lorne is now gawking at the man. . . hobbit? No, no, definitely not a hobbit -like an idiot when he makes his appearance.

He is taller than Bilbo but still shorter than her -maybe hovering around five feet? A little more? Broad in the shoulders and clearly muscled underneath a thin mail of armor, with a tattooed scalp and a very impressive beard. . .

Oh, a dwarf! He has to be a dwarf!

Lorne knows full well that she is staring, but she really can't help it. Her wide eyes linger on the crude scar across his right temple, and it takes another uncomfortable moment for her to snap her jaw closed as the dwarf narrows his dark, suspicious gaze in her direction. She is hard to miss, after all.

Yet, and yet. . .

"Oh, um. Hello." She swallows, attempting to sit up straight in her teetering chair. For whatever, unexplainable reason, she feels that she needs to make a good impression on this. . . intimidating dwarf.

He studies her with wary intensity, and then tips his head in acknowledgment. "At your service as well." He rumbles. And, without so much as an invitation, he sits down in the chair beside her and reaches for the full plate that once belonged to Bilbo.

Lorne blinks. She still can't seem to tear her eyes away from him, considering that he _is_ the first non-hobbit inhabitant of Middle-earth that she has ever seen. And a dwarf, at that! It's amazing, it's incredible, and she is so distracted by his presence that she doesn't even think to ask him what he is doing here. Her face is filled with nothing but awe.

Bilbo, meanwhile, is hovering anxiously by the table on her other side, utterly at a loss for what to say, or even how to start _processing_ whatever the hell is going on. The sheer bewilderment in his expression is fairly obvious.

"Lorne!" She blurts out, as the tense silence threatens to stretch through the kitchen. "Ah, my name, I mean. Lorne." She stammers. Her ears burn pink as the dwarf, Dwalin, gives her a sharp look and a raised eyebrow over his fish. "Lorne MacGrath. It's. . . it's very nice to meet you."

There is a brief pause, and then the dwarf nods once before returning to the food.

But, it's enough. Lorne feels an unexpected surge of satisfaction at the gesture, and doesn't realize that she is grinning down at her meal like a fool until the doorbell rings. Again. She and Bilbo exchange an automatic glance, her smile slipping into a bemused frown that mirrors his.

_More_ visitors? Seriously? This is just. . . weird. An interesting weird, maybe. . . but still weird.

Dwalin levels a glare at Bilbo when he doesn't move. In fact, the hobbit appears to be frozen to the floor. "That would be the door." The dwarf growls.

"Ah! Right, right. . ." Bilbo makes a tiny noise that may or may not have been a squeak, and is disappearing yet again in a _swish_ of patchwork fabric.

Lorne is just about to grab her fork, wondering what sort of conversation she could possibly start with their. . . impromptu guest, when his dark eyes cut to hers. Swift and slick -like the edge of a razor blade.

Oh, she was staring again, wasn't she? Maybe? Hopefully not? Wait, his plate is empty. She can use this. . .

"We have more food in the pantry. Much more." She says. "I can, um, show you. If you want. . ?" And if she sounds a little more eager than she should, well. . . Yeah, she really hopes that she doesn't. This is awkward as it is.

And, to top everything off, she stands up so fast that she knocks her chair over.

Dwalin snorts, amusement flickering through his expression. "Are yah going to injure yourself on the way there?" He asks dryly.

Of course, when Lorne needs her brilliant, deadpan wit the most. . . she literally cannot find words to reply with -never mind any clever ones. Her posture slumps in defeat as she straightens out the chair. "Yeah, probably." She sighs. "I'm a perfectly coordinated individual, yah know, but the chandelier hanging up there poses a serious health risk to the, um. Overwhelmingly vertical, I guess."

Which is kind of what she gets for being six feet tall and staying in house built for four-feet-plus hobbits, right?

Shockingly enough, though, she hears the dwarf behind her laugh. Actually, it might be a cough or him just clearing his throat. . . but it pretty much sounds like a laugh to her, and that definitely counts as a victory in her book.

Lorne beams, ridiculously pleased with herself as she shows Dwalin into the pantry. Maybe, she can be a little more clever than she gives herself credit for. Though, she still ends up smacking into the chandelier in the process.


	7. Entertaining Guests

Thanks for the continued support, everyone! This chapter was pretty fun to write, so I hope you guys like it =)

ooo OOO ooo OOO ooo

**#7. Entertaining Guests**.

Balin was the one who was at the door next, with a great white beard and kind, twinkling eyes. Balin and Dwalin, apparently brothers? Lorne may have missed something while she was watching them reunite with huge, startled eyes. And, now. . .

Dwarves. There are literally dwarves _everywhere_ -and she is so overwhelmed that she doesn't even know where to begin. She lost sight of poor, spluttering Bilbo around the same time that the youngest pair burst into the house, a blond with a nicely braided moustache, and one with darker hair and barely any wisp of a beard at all. Fili and Kili? God, how is she going to remember all of their names? _Does_ she have to remember all of them?

Wait -why the hell are they even here, again? She really wants to ask, but. . . well. She's also a bit nervous about being surrounded by this many. . . um, boisterous strangers. So, she kind of keeps to herself. Says her name when asked. Smiles when someone smiles back. And she attempts to stay in her little corner of the dining room while lingering unconsciously close to Dwalin. She has _finally_ found an interesting topic of conversation that he is willing to offer more than a handful of blunt sentences on.

Which would be weapons, by the way. He is very passionate about weapons -axes in particular, as he happens to wield two double-bladed ones that Lorne is trying desperately hard not to beg to see.

"How large are they? Are they made with some kind of steel alloy?" Her eyes are wide and utterly impossible to ignore. "Nickel-infused? Titanium, maybe? Though, titanium isn't really the easiest metal to work with. . ."

"Steel -and they're probably too heavy for yah to even lift, lass." He huffs over his ale. "You look as if a light wind might knock you over."

"Hah, hah. Like I haven't heard that one before. But, really -I think that I'd surprise you, Mister Dwalin." She grins crookedly. "I'm much more capable than I look, you know."

Yeah, he seems to consider her own fascination with the subject amusing and rather baffling. She asks about the different types of materials that the dwarves usually forge with, how long certain types of weapons take to create, along with dozens of other questions that, of course, the dwarf doesn't exactly answer. They simply leave him staring at her with this twist of a smirk, as if he could be thinking: _and this crazy kid actually believes that she can compete with _dwarvish_ smiths? Don't make me laugh_. . .

It's a little patronizing and a lot annoying, and it only makes her even more determined to prove that she _does_ know what she is talking about. Why? She. . . has no idea. Dwalin still remains the very first dwarf that she has ever met in Middle-earth, and. . . that's important to her. And, if this is going to be the only night she gets to hang out with this weird, enthusiastic crowd, she wants him to remember that crazy kid who wanted to craft her own swords and shields and battle axes with, at the very least, some fond exasperation.

She can live with just plain exasperation, too.

Eventually, Dwalin is drawn into a debate with the dark-haired dwarf wearing an ear-flap hat, seated across from them at the table. Bofur? Bifur? Lorne has truly forgotten which. Her eyes flicker between the pair, but she quickly slips back into observation mode and begins scanning the room, a rather stupid grin on her face.

And there is the wizard. You can't forget the wizard -not that she ever could. Old and tall, about as tall as she is, dressed in loose grey robes with the staff and the pointed hat and everything, accepting a glass from an older dwarf with braids and, yeah. A wizard. Gandalf the Grey -and his name is probably the only unsurprising thing about this entire night.

She would truly like to ask _him_ some questions -mainly, how did he know that she was staying here? And how much more does he know about her, exactly? And. . .

Oh, hey -Bilbo! Lorne suddenly spies him smack in the middle of the whirling chaos, flushing red and his curls shaking furiously as he attempts to argue with one of the dwarves, or any of the dwarves who will listen, it seems. Which would be: none of them. In fact, they appear to be having the time of their lives here and, as guilty as she feels about the mud over the floors and all of their food from the pantry being taken and piled onto the table, she is just so caught up in the sheer volume of _energy_ roaring through Bag End right now. . . that she simply can't help but be swept along for the ride.

She is also afraid to move in case she knocks something, or someone, over. That possibility is seeming more and more likely as the chaos continues.

"So! What was your name again, lass? And, beggin' your pardon, but you don't appear to be from anywhere around these parts. . . are yeh?"

Lorne turns back to the table and to the dwarf with the ear-flap hat. He is watching her with big, curious brown eyes, and she feels her face automatically growing warm at the attention as the dwarves sitting closest to them also decide to tune in.

"It's, um, Lorne. MacGrath." She scratches the side of her neck with an awkward smile. "And, no. I've only been living in the Shire for about a year, now. Bilbo has, very graciously, been allowing me to stay with him at Bag End."

"Why, yeh hear that, lads?" Bofur flashes his grin at a few others -Oin and Nori? before he aims it back at her. He looks positively delighted. "Gandalf was right! That accent. . ." He lets out a low whistle. "Where in the world _are_ yeh from, Miss Lorne?"

Huh? Gandalf was _right -?_ How could he have. . ?

"Oh, well. . . pretty far away. Extremely far away, to be honest." She stammers. "You could probably say that I'm from a whole other world, and that still wouldn't be close enough."

"Aye, I believe it!" Bofur laughs. "Especially with clothes like that."

Wait, what's wrong with her clothes. . ?

"Is it also true that you're a craftsman?" Nori -he has the tall flop of red hair, doesn't he? asks from the other side of Dwalin -and the latter dwarf gives her a brief look that might almost be considered surprised.

What -he didn't think she was serious before? With all of those questions on making weapons? Man, who would even care about those sorts of things if they _weren't_ serious about learning how to build them?

"Gandalf says so." Nori adds lightly, at her dumbfounded expression. "He says, you were one of the most talented smiths in your village! 'Course, that was before they closed down your shop. . . isn't that what happened?"

Good Lord. Does this wizard know _everything_ about her?

"Ah. . . yes. I mean, about the closing down the shop, part." Lorne fights down another bright, hopeless blush, though her ears must be violently red by this point. "And I like to think that I'm pretty good at what I do. Or, what I used to do." She shrugs. "It's mostly repairing gates, animal pens, and garden fences around the Shire, though. Nothing to get excited about. . ."

She leans back in her chair just as someone is passing behind her. A startled voice curses and she yelps out when something cold sloshes down her shirt -and then she is toppling over too fast to even be surprised.

But, no. Something stops her before she falls. Dwalin lashes out and grabs the edge of her chair, and another hand is suddenly digging into her shoulder, keeping her upright until she can find her balance again.

"Are you all right, Miss Lorne? Oh, Mahal -I wasn't even looking. . ."

"No -I mean, yeah. I'm fine. It was kind of my fault, too." Lorne shakes her head, plucking at the bottom of her damp shirt with a frown. It smells like. . . yep. The dwarf spilled his ale on her. Awesome.

She glances up and her eyes land on the fingers still attached to her shoulder. When her frown deepens, they almost immediately let go. "Don't worry about it." She tells him. "I'm sure something like this was bound to happen, sooner or later. Sort of easy to trip over me, considering. . ." She holds her hand over her head to sheepishly indicate her size.

And this is met with a laugh and a brilliant smile amidst his mane of long, blond hair. "I'm sorry about that, as well -make no mistake." The dwarf jokes. "May I offer you this as compensation, perhaps?" He moves to give her one of the full tankards of ale in his other hand, but. . . she doesn't take it.

Actually, all Lorne can do is stare at him. In retrospect, that might have been a little weird. She squints at him with what must be the strangest expression on her face, and the grin slowly slips from his as the silence between them hovers into awkward.

She almost wants to blurt out: _Do I know you from somewhere?_ Which would be ridiculous, of course. Because, how? How could she possibly know him? She was there when Bilbo opened the front door and let him and the other young dwarf into the house for the first time, and nothing had. . . He didn't seem. . .

She shakes her head again and her mouth curls into a strained smile. "No, thanks. I'm not really big on ale, Fili." His name is easy to remember, now. It burst into her mind with such a weird sense of clarity -she likely won't be forgetting it ever again. "I appreciate it, though." She reassures him, feeling a twinge of guilt at his disappointment.

"As do I, lad." Dwalin grins, and he snatches the offered ale to replace his own empty tankard, drawing some raucous laughs from the other dwarves who were watching. And then, he proceeds to pour the entire thing down the hearing aid Oin is using.

Amazing.

Lorne bursts into laughter, herself, as she makes to get up. Her shirt is now beginning to stick to her back and it is incredibly uncomfortable. She flashes Fili another awkward grin, waving him off as he opens his mouth to apologize again.

"Seriously, I have plenty of other clothes to change into. It was just an accident." She gives him a two-fingered salute before she ducks into the hallway, and he looks relatively more cheerful when he returns to his chair at the opposite corner of the table.

Besides, not only does she need another shirt. . . she has a hobbit to check in on and a wizard to interrogate. Something funny is going on with that Gandalf, and she wants to know _exactly_ what it is. She hurries into her room, peels off her band tee, and shrugs into a plain yellow one only stained across the bottom. But the paint smears are these vibrant reds and oranges, and they look like a really cool sunset design. She happens to be quite fond of it.

By the time she wanders back out into the sitting room again, Bilbo appears to be in the middle of an argument with said wizard.

". . . don't understand what they're doing in my house!" He blusters, cheeks bright pink, his hands on his hips.

Gandalf, meanwhile, is chewing thoughtfully on the end of his pipe with a teasing brightness in his eyes. Lorne doesn't hear his answer, though, as the frustrated hobbit is approached by one of the younger, red-headed dwarves.

"Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt. . ." He says, and she is fairly sure that his name is Ori. . . or Dori? No, no. It's definitely Ori. "But what should I do with my plate?"

Fili abruptly pokes his head around the corner of the dining room, as if waiting for his cue. "Here you go, Ori. Give it to me." He grins, and then he takes the dish and tosses it to his dark-haired brother in one fluid movement.

Oh, well. . . wow. That was impressive. But, it gets even better. Once a few of the dwarves see Fili and Kili throwing their empty plates into the kitchen, where the dwarf with the axe sticking out of his forehead -Bifur? Bombur?- is at the sink, washing them, which is just. . . totally and completely unexpected, by the way. . . the rest join in. Within minutes, the air is full of laughter and flying dishware.

Lorne feels a huge, disbelieving grin stretch across her face at the sight. Of course, she can always talk to Gandalf later. . . when she is less likely to catch a fork through the eye if she crosses the room. Bilbo, naturally, does not look very happy about the treatment of his dishes. He squawks and sputters and attempts to explain that they used to belong to his mother, thank you very much -and they are over a hundred years old!

"And can you not do that, please?" He begs the dwarves at the table, who are now drumming their cutlery together in perfect rhythm across the wood. "You'll blunt them!"

"Oooh, he says we'll blunt the knives!" Bofur chortles.

Okay, sure. Lorne might have been imagining a number of different ways for this scene to end, but none of them honestly involved the dwarves bursting into song. She dissolves into a helpless fit of laughter at the sound, ducking and dodging a few wayward mugs that spiral past her corner.

Can these guys visit Bag End on a regular basis? If Bilbo doesn't have a heart attack, maybe she could convince him. . ? Somehow? Maybe? That would be so awesome. . .

It takes about ten minutes -literally, ten whole minutes- for the dwarves to clean every cup, bowl, and plate in the entire house. And then, they end up stacked into an immaculate pile on the edge of the dining table, not a single piece even scratched.

". . . that was amazing." Lorne feels her wide, toothy grin nearly take over her entire face as the dwarves howl with laughter.

Bilbo doesn't scowl, not quite, as he steps up next to her. He does look like he might want to start yelling again, though. "Ah, no. I wouldn't have called it that." He huffs, but his flustered expression slowly begins to ease when he realizes that his cheerful, uninvited guests haven't actually broke anything.

"You have truly enjoyed this spectacle, haven't you?" He squints up at her. "The crowd, the noise? All of it?" He frowns. "Really?"

Lorne awkwardly rubs the back of her neck. "I know. I'm kind of surprised about that, too. But. . . yeah. This was actually really fun." She chuckles. "And, don't worry -we can restock the pantry, and I'll help clean up any messes that were missed. Floors and everything. It won't be so bad. I mean, since we do we ever have guests?"

The hobbit sighs. "Yes, I suppose. But it might take us quite a long awhile." When his gaze meets hers again, an exasperated smile flickers at the corner of his mouth. "And I still haven't gotten a straight answer as to why all of them are here. . ."

A sudden, heavy knock echoes through Bag End. Everyone falls silent, and fourteen pairs of eyes are automatically straying towards the front door.

"He is here." Gandalf murmurs, his voice solemn.

That sounds. . . ominous. Lorne and Bilbo exchange puzzled frowns. With little other choice, they follow behind the dwarves into the foyer. Something is different about this vistor, that much is clear. The air around everyone is tense, charged. Not anxiously, but almost in. . . anticipation?

Hmm. Lorne stays by the fringe of the group, watching their reactions curiously. Who could this person possibly be, to make such a merry bunch act like this?

Gandalf opens the door and Lorne blinks. And then, she blinks again as the last dwarf strides into Bag End. Shrewd blue eyes set above a long, sharp nose, and his handsome face is framed by thick, black hair streaked with silver. Tall -not as tall as Dwalin, though certainly just as formidable. . .

"Gandalf, I thought you said this place would be easy to find." His accent is low and dark and ridiculously smooth. "I lost my way -twice. And I wouldn't have found it at all had it not been for that mark on the door." He loosens the collar of his traveling cloak with sure, practiced fingers just as Bilbo pushes his way into view.

"What -? Mark?" The hobbit sounds incredibly offended by the notion. "There is no mark on that door, Lorne painted it a week ago!" He snaps.

Which she did, sure. But she can always paint it again -it's not a big deal.

"Yes, there _is_ a mark. I put it there myself." Gandalf gently corrects him, as he closes the door again. For the first time that she has noticed all evening, the wizard actually looks over at her. His smile is barely a whisper across his face, but it is kind, and patient, and reassuring, and Lorne feels a strange brush of relief at the sight of it.

She can't help smiling a little in return.

"Miss MacGrath, Bilbo Baggins. . ." The wizard continues. "Allow me to introduce the leader of our company: Thorin Oakenshield."

No surprises there. About the leader part, anyways. Said dwarf stops right in front of Bilbo, his blue eyes intent and unblinking upon the smaller man as he folds his arms over his chest. "So, this is the hobbit." His expression might be unreadable, but his heavy stare is incredibly intimidating.

"Tell me, Mr. Baggins -have you done much fighting?" Thorin presses. He saunters around Bilbo like how a shark might circle its prey.

"Ah, pardon me?" Bilbo frowns, attempting to track the dwarf with a mounting stiffness in his posture, a slight pink color in his cheeks.

The dwarf is relentless, though. "Axe or sword?" He demands. "What's your weapon of choice?"

Weapon? What? Lorne feels her own bemused frown flicker into a scowl as this goes on. Bilbo draws himself up and tries to bluff his way through the stream of mocking questions, confused and indignant and, yeah. Okay -enough is enough. This new dwarf is an ass and her friend does _not_ deserve to be spoken to like this! Who the hell cares if he is the so-called _leader_ of this company? His manners just. . . suck. A lot.

"Hey, you. Mister Thorin? Excuse me." A sharp, blistering heat ignites beneath her skin as she inserts herself right into the middle of the interrogation. "I'm pretty sure that you're a guest in his house, aren't you? Instead of jumping down his throat as soon as you walk in, you could just say _thank you_ -because he did feed all of your companions dinner."

Complete silence.

The other dwarves hardly appear to be breathing, let alone about to do any speaking of their own. And, Thorin. . . he surveys her for a long, unsettling moment, his blue eyes flickering from her head to toes before they narrow underneath his brows. And, despite the fact that she towers over the dwarf, her rise of anger begins to waver beneath his sheer force of presence.

"And, you would be -?" The dwarf coldly prompts. "Who? His bodyguard?"

"Well, I was hoping for friend. . . before you started being rude, at least." She weakly admits, with a dull, uncomfortable flush creeping across her face. "I mean, I'm friends with Bilbo. I kind of live here with him. . . and, Lorne. That's my name -did I say that?" She clears her throat as her skin begins to burn. "Look, I'm pretty sure that we started off on the wrong foot, here. . ."

And, that's it. The rest of her anger abruptly melts down her spin like a bucket of ice water, her words failing completely.

He is not impressed with her show, either. Why would he be? Lorne might have the height advantage, but for all of her intelligence and awkward bravado, her short bursts of confidence never last long enough for her to really. . . do anything with them. Especially when she needs them the most.

Thorin gives her another critical look as the tense silence threatens to return. "We do not need a _friend_ -Miss Lorne." He strides right past her into the dining room. "And we certainly do not need a woman who cannot keep her mouth shut."

Lorne doesn't even have a moment to respond before all of the dwarves have followed after him, and she is left standing in the foyer with a silent wizard and a fuming hobbit, her hands shaking down by her sides and the most confusing twist of hurt, rage, and humiliation slapped across her face.


	8. Glimpsing Fire

Thanks a bunch for the review, Hel Opacare! I'm still not quite sure what I'm going to do with the romance if/until I get to Bard. . . I do have future plans for Dwalin, though -so he is going to feature heavily through out the story =)

Hope you guys enjoy this chapter!

ooo OOO ooo OOO ooo

**#8. Glimpsing Fire**.

The wizard promises her that they will speak -that they have quite a bit to talk about, actually, and then he disappears with a _swish_ of his robes into the dining room with the dwarves. Lorne is still attempting to school her features together, a scowl firmly set in her bright red face as she shakes her head.

"I've never met someone quite like that in my entire life." Bilbo grumbles under his breath. He moves up next to her and wrinkles his nose, almost frowning as hard as she is. "And this. . . this _business_ that they have with us. . ." He peers warily around the corner, his words trailing away with a sigh.

Lorne tries to take a deep, calming breath, and flexes her fingers to work out the pain that had been stiffening along her joints. Her fists were clenched so hard that her nails nearly broke the skin across her palms. "Regardless of their. . . tactless ass of a leader." She grunts. "The rest aren't so bad. Or, all of the ones I was able to talk with, anyways."

And that's the truth. She has never been very fond of people, and yet. . . well, these dwarves aren't really like the people from her Earth, are they? She just. . . she just likes hanging around them. She couldn't explain why even if you asked her to.

"I'm still not very sure about any of this." The hobbit says. He looks up at her with furrowed brows, but she can also see a sliver of curiosity taking root amidst his worries.

"Only one way to find out, right?" She shrugs.

And find out, they do. Of all the things that Lorne was anticipating from this company, learning that they want to travel hundreds or thousands of miles across the world to, what? Take back their homeland, this giant mountain that they call _Erebor_ -from a dragon, an honest fire-breathing _dragon,_ no less, was not even close.

Well, she should really stop expecting to take these things in stride, since there really is no way to react to this news other than with stunned disbelief. And maybe a small degree of alarm, as well, because. . . thirteen dwarves, against one dragon? If it still lives there? To be perfectly frank, those don't sound like very comforting odds.

Bilbo isn't fairing much better with this reveal, either. His expression is drawn and uneasy as the dwarves fall into squabbles amongst each other. They aren't afraid, they want to go, they want to fight! And Fili interrupts their bickering with a slap of his hand against the far end of the table.

"We may be few in number, but we're fighters." He says, his voice strong and firm as it carries through the room. "All of us -to the the last dwarf!"

Lorne stares at him, probably a bit longer than she was intending to as a few of the others cheer their agreement. He certainly is brave. All of them are, actually. And it's either incredibly foolish, or incredibly. . . admirable. Or maybe a bit of both.

"And you forget: we have a wizard in our company." Kili adds, leaning in next his brother. His dark eyes are wide and gleaming with an almost childlike enthusiasm. "Gandalf will have killed hundreds of dragons in his time!"

Hmm, that _is_ a good point. She glances to the wizard, as do the rest of the dwarves, but the look Gandalf is wearing is hardly inspiring. He leans back in his small wooden chair while Dori, with the neat rows of grayish braids, prompts: _how many, then? How many dragons have you killed?_ And all the wizard does is stare at them and cough up a lungful of his pipe smoke, which induces another bout of shouting all around the table.

Lorne has no idea how _anything_ is going to get decided with this bunch. She slumps against the wall just behind Bilbo, and then slides down further still until she is sitting on the floor. How is she supposed to even fit in with this discussion? Thorin called the hobbit a _burglar_ earlier, as if they already have plans for him, but then he dismissed her own presence without another thought. Which means. . . that she isn't needed on this quest, is she? Not really. She is only being included with this right now because she just so happens to be staying at Bag End.

If Bilbo truly wants to _go_ with these dwarves on their quest to Erebor, for whatever reasons they need him. . . where will that leave her? Here, in the Shire? Alone? A rush of cold suddenly floods her body. No, no, no. She can't -she _won't_ stay here, not by herself. If Bilbo goes, then she goes.

Lorne swallows, trying to ignore the sour taste of panic coating the back of her throat as she draws her knees up to her chest. She'll just. . . have to convince them that she will be useful, somehow. She isn't _only_ a woman and she _wouldn't_ be a liability. Seriously, she used to work with metal equipment that probably weighed twice as much as these dwarves do. Why _couldn't_ she learn how to fight, how to wield a sword? If one of them would teach her. . .

By the time she tunes back into the conversation, at least no one is yelling anymore. Gandalf, apparently, produced a strange metal key from his robes that Thorin took with a near reverent expression. It belonged to his father? Anyways, there is an invisible door -because dwarf doors are invisible when closed- into the mountain that the special key opens. But the location of said invisible door is on this certain map, and even Gandalf can't figure out how to find it amongst the ink drawings of forests and rivers.

Which is, evidently, why the dwarves need Bilbo -the hobbit likely needs to steal something once they get inside the mountain. Maybe? Who the hell knows? But if that isn't the most _ridiculous_ thing that she has ever heard. . .

"Me? No, no, no -I'm not a burglar!" Bilbo protests, his expression creased with anger. "I've never stolen a thing in my life!"

"I'm afraid that I have to agree with Mr. Baggins." Balin gives the hobbit an oddly searching look, his frown not quite hidden behind his thick white beard. "He is hardly burglar material."

"Aye." Dwalin rumbles. "And the wild is no place for gentle folk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves." He glances at Thorin, and then his dark eyes flicker to his right.

Figures that they would land on her.

Lorne should probably stop with the whole _staring_ thing. Eventually, maybe. . . But, even when the dwarf catches her, she keeps her head high and doesn't shy away -no matter how embarrassed she is. His gaze narrows, and yet. . . the look on his face appears more considering than anything unfriendly.

What is he thinking about? That she would have no place amongst them, either? That she couldn't take care of herself if they let her come? Bilbo is _not_ helpless, and neither is she. Their species or gender shouldn't factor into this whatsoever, and she is about to voice as much in a flare of annoyance when the dwarves begin to shout at one another. Again.

Thankfully, Gandalf is the one to interrupt this time -standing straight and tall. . . and taller, and his shadow growing thicker and darker behind him until it threatens to cover the entire dining hall.

"Enough!" He demands, and his voice is like a growl of terrible thunder.

The sound of it instantly shuts everyone up.

"If I say that Bilbo Baggins is a burgalr, then a burglar he is!" He booms -and just like that, the moment is over.

Lorne gapes at the wizard when he sits back down, as if nothing happened. But. . . just. . . holy shit, that was. . . She gulps, hoping that she never has to find out what the extent of his abilities are.

"Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet." Gandalf insists. "In fact, they can pass unseen by most if they choose. And while the dragon is accustomed to the smell of dwarf, the scent of a hobbit is all but unknown to him -which gives us a distinct advantage." He turns towards Thorin with a lingering thread of exasperation in his tone.

"You have asked me to find the fourteen member of your company, and I have chosen Mr. Baggins. There is a lot more to him than appearances suggest, and he has a great deal more to offer than any of you know." The wizard shoots the bewildered hobbit a look. "Including himself."

Well, she probably couldn't have said that any better. So, at least someone did. Lorne struggles to stand and not smack her head against the ceiling, and as she does, something against the side of her face begins to burn. The sensation is sharp and unpleasant over her skin, and it usually means that. . .

Someone is watching her. In this case, many someones.

"Fourteen members?" A low voice echoes -Thorin, with an obvious note of irritation. "And what of the girl? Are you expecting us to drag her along, as well? Because I will not, Gandalf. I will not take her _and_ the halfling."

Lorne feels her head snap up without even realizing it. And, yes -all of the dwarves, one hobbit, and one wizard, are now staring at her. Shit. She was sort of hoping that she could present her case without an audience. And after she spoke with Gandalf would have been nice, too.

"I was going to say _please_ -you know." She eventually frowns. "Hey, you don't actually have to drag me. . ."

"No, they certainly don't." Bilbo scoffs. He folds his arms over his chest and glares right back at Thorin, his posture bristling in defense. "I'm not agreeing to any of this, not yet. But if I _am_ to come along with you on your quest, I'm not going anywhere without Lorne. So -it would either be the two of us joining your company. . . or, you know. Neither of us." He clears his throat.

"Take that for what you will."

Oh, that was. . . wow. A dizzying rush of grattitude spirals through her, and Lorne looks to her hobbit with this weird, dazed little smile tugging at the side of her mouth. She has absolutely nothing to say to that. She can't even thank him, not right in the middle of all of this awkward attention. She is honestly too afraid to open her mouth to try.

But he seems to know how she feels, anyways. Of _course_ he knows, because -how long has she been living here with him? And how often do they spend time together? Bilbo Baggins probably knows her better than anyone ever has, and the warm, fleeting smile he flashes her is like a jolt of reassurance through her veins.

She doesn't deserve to be treated like this -not by anyone. Even dwarf kings.

"And I'm not a _girl_ -either." She blurts out, scowling at the narrowed, ice blue eyes that snap back to hers. "I'm twenty-five years old, and where I come from, that's old enough to have a job, a house, and a family of my own. I lived alone for six years without anyone there to hold my hand, so it isn't as if I'm physically incapable of looking after myself, Mister Thorin. And. . . and my being a female does not make me _weak_ -and it doesn't make me any less of a decent ally, either, if you were to just. . ."

Lorne pauses and struggles for a breath. Her face is flushed, adrenaline stuttering and cooling down her limbs as her hands begin to shake. "If you were to just give me a chance." She finishes, not quite pleading, not quite desperate. . . but almost.

Thorin did not blink once during her entire, impromptu speech. In fact, he is wearing the oddest expression on his face right now: something angry and surprised, and perhaps even a little. . ?

No, that can't be right. He is definitely not impressed, not with the sparks in his glare throwing that much fire. Her gaze automatically seeks out Bilbo, and he is just _beaming_ at her with this embarrassing amount of fondness. . . and, yeah. She is definitely blushing. Great.

"Miss Lorne is also a craftsman, as I've mentioned before." Gandalf adds cheerfully. "She knows her way around metal and stone as well as any man -if not, more so." He continues, mostly to a disgruntled Thorin.

"And while she has never had the opportunity to practice with her weapons, I believe that she would prove to be a valuable asset to this group -should one of you simply be willing to teach her."

Yes, exactly! That is exactly it. Lorne grins at the wizard, praying she looks as thankful as she feels for his assistance. He nods, his gaze approving, and then he takes a casual puff from his pipe while everyone else just sort of sits at the table in a shell-shocked silence.

Thorin stares at the wizard for a strained, uncomfortable moment. He doesn't look happy about this. Lorne is beginning to think that the guy never looks happy, honestly- but he also doesn't look like he is going to launch anything else rude or insulting her way. So, that's a plus. . . right? And she might be a little too nervous to see how the other dwarves are taking all of this, which just leaves her standing awkwardly next to Bilbo and trying not to have a heart attack.

Man, he hasn't even decided if he wants to go yet, has he?

"If it is both, or neither of them. . ." Thorin pauses stiffly. Then, he motions to Balin with an air of barely contained resignation. "Give the halfling the contract and have the girl sign after him, for now. We will write up another one for her once we have the time."

He shoves a piece of worn, folded paper at the baffled hobbit, and Lorne lets out such a huge exhale that her knees almost buckle underneath her. Of course, her overwhelming relief lasts for, roughly, five minutes -because Bofur starts teasing Bilbo about the dragon and their possible funeral arrangements, and the hobbit, in turn, blanches and faints.

Good, God. She knows that the dwarf was only joking, but she very nearly lays into him after she helps the hobbit into his favorite armchair. That was so completely uncalled for. . .

"Relax, breathe. Don't worry about it right now." She assures Bilbo, kneeling down next to him. "I'll, um. . . do you want some tea? I can brew a pot for yah."

He nods, his fingers fidgeting nervously in his lap. "Yes, um -please." He clears his throat, a tiny noise escaping as catches his breath. His skin is still a few delicate shades of grey above pale. "I would appreciate that, Lorne."

So, here she is in the empty kitchen, now that the meeting has officially ended. Whatever the hobbit chooses, whether he wants to help the dwarves or not, she will stand by his decision. Even if. . . even if she wants absolutely nothing more than to go, herself. Frightening and life-threatening situations aside, the company will be traveling across quite a bit of Middle-earth, and she wants to _see_, wants to _experience_, wants to _know_. . .

Oh, she wants to know _everything!_

This last year in the Shire has been wonderful, but Lorne doubts that another adventure will literally fall through their door ever again. Certainly not an adventure like this one, at least. . .

"Miss MacGrath -I seem to have finally caught a spare moment of your time."

"Hmm? Oh! Hey, Gandalf. I know, right?" Lorne turns away from the hearth to face the smiling wizard. "And I wanted to thank you. For, um. You know -before." She makes a vague gesture towards the dining room. "You didn't have to stick up for me like that, so. . . thanks."

"As I recall, you were doing quite fine on your own." He says lightly. "And you would have continued to do so even without my involvement."

She manages a toothy grin at that, a flutter of pride ghosting through her chest. "Let's just hope it doesn't happen again. I'd rather not make an enemy out of the company leader. If I can help it, I mean. He is kind of. . . unfriendly, though. Just a little."

That isn't the word she would have used if she were talking with Bilbo, but the wizard seems to be very fond of _all_ of the dwarves, and all of them might actually include Thorin Oakenshield. She really doesn't want to piss off the guy with the magical staff, either.

"Stubborn is the more appropriate term, I think." Gandalf chuckles, though his amused expression sobers quickly enough at the mention of the surly dwarf. "Thorin. . ." He hesitates. "Thorin may be difficult to work with, but our company trusts that he will see this quest through to the very end. These twelve might be an easy bunch to get along with, but earning their loyalty? Their respect? Those are not so simply won, my dear, and Thorin has managed to secure both." The wizard raises one of his thick, greyish eyebrows at her.

"Unfriendly or not, he is still a remarkable individual."

Lorne blinks, a little taken aback by such an intense response. "What? No, no. I don't doubt his capabilities, nothing like that." She frowns. "I'm an adult -I can admit that I respect the guy for what he's doing. That doesn't mean I have to like him, though. Which, at the moment, I don't." She shakes her head as she glances at the small iron pot hanging above the fire.

Nope -not boiling yet. And they have more important things to be discussing than how wonderful Thorin Oakenshield is, anyways.

"Look." She interrupts, just as the wizard was likely going to say something else on the subject. "I really wanted to ask you about how you seem to. . . know me. Even before I had heard of you, Bilbo said that you mentioned my name when you approached him earlier today. What was that about?" She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against the table, watching the wizard as her frown deepens. "And the dwarves I spoke with at dinner knew a few things about me, too. Things, apparently, that _you_ had told them."

For a long, strange minute, Gandalf merely stares at her. He looks a little confused, which only serves to confuse _her_ even more.

"You don't remember, do you?" He finally asks, and he sounds disappointed -but not altogether surprised.

"Do I remember. . ?" Lorne wrinkles her nose and tries not to look offended. "About meeting you before? Come on, I definitely wouldn't have forgotten that." She huffs.

The wizard peers at her closely. "You wouldn't have? Hmm. . . and what if I hadn't looked as you see me, here?" He presses. "Because we _have_ met before. I introduced you to a very good friend of mine. . . oh, some years from now, if we're keeping count. And you certainly appear to remember him."

. . . what?

"Don't worry, my dear." Gandalf gives her a patient smile, though it does nothing to ease the utter blankess of her floored expression. "I'm sure that everything will come back to you, in time. Perhaps a decent night of rest will help? Then, you can ask me whatever you wish in the morning, and I will do my best to answer what I can." He pats her on the shoulder as he turns to go, and then nods at something behind her.

"I believe your water is boiling."

Oh, right. . . the water. Which is. . . why was she waiting for it to boil, again?


	9. Looking Behind

**#9. Looking Behind**.

Nothing Gandalf said would change his mind. After his cup of tea, Bilbo firmly shook his head, muttered that he would like some time to himself, please, and left Lorne and the wizard in the sitting room without a glance back.

Her head is buzzing. She did her best to stay out of the conversation, because. . . well, it really isn't up to her, is it? The dwarves don't need her to come along -they just need Bilbo. And she already swore that she would accept his decision, regardless of what it was. Not to mention. . . she is still kind of distracted by what came out of her own weird chat with Gandalf.

A lot distracted, actually.

God, how could she have possibly met him before? She hasn't been staying in Middle-earth for years -not even close! And what was that about him introducing her to someone? Who the hell could _that_ have been?

She screws her eyes shut and rubs at her forehead, forcing a heavy sigh out through her nose. No, issues with her faulty memories can wait. She should probably go check on Bilbo, even if he doesn't want to see anyone right now. Just to make sure. . .

"I take it that you weren't able to convince him?"

Lorne squints, and then drops her hand back down to her side when she spots Kili leaning against the vacant armchair. His brother, never far behind, strides into the room moments later and steps up beside him, arms folded over his chest.

"It was his call, in the end." She shrugs. "I didn't want to make him or anything. . . But, yeah. I think this is it, guys." She sighs again, and finds herself staring at the brothers with a sudden, heavy ache between her ribs. The same ache that she was feeling this morning, which seems. . . like so long ago, now.

"I'm sorry." She quickly continues, praying that it simply goes away. "I mean, if there was something else I could do, I would do it. I would. Which probably doesn't mean much, since we don't really know each other. . ."

Kili waves a hand to interrupt her. His smiles come easy, and they always seem to be bright and brimming with life. But. . . something shadowed lingers behind this one. Something regretful, maybe, or even a little sad.

"We understand." He reassures her -or he tries to, at least. It only makes her feel worse as he braves another, not quite cheerful grin. "And the thought is appreciated, really." He gives her a clap on the arm just before he walks by, towards the other parlor on the east side of the house.

"Everything will work out in the end, Miss Lorne. I do believe that much."

Her lips twitch into their own excuse of a smile in response, and. . . oh, how she wishes that she could offer something more than just empty words.

When her attention returns to the remaining dwarf, the blond is frowning at her. His steady gaze looks more greyish than blue underneath the lights -like a thin haze of snow clouds drifting above the ocean.

"Um. . ." She pauses awkwardly. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, no at all." Fili shakes his head. "You're just. . . I don't know." He admits, and he sounds a little flustered at being called out. "Not what I was expecting, I suppose? When Gandalf mentioned that Mr. Baggins had company, he told us that you weren't a hobbit, of course, but. . ." He huffs, and a grin curls up one side of his mouth.

"It's the height, isn't it?" Lorne guesses, voice wry. "Or, the paint stains, maybe?" She pulls at the bottom of her yellow t-shirt and, much to her delight, makes him laugh. "Oh, I've also heard that my Westron is pretty lousy. . . so, sorry about the accent?"

His whole face shines when he laughs like that. It's actually sort of ridiculous. No -what's ridiculous is the fact that she can't stop grinning now, either. Even the ache in her chest feels a little less tight. . .

"Come now, Miss Lorne. It isn't _that_ awful ." Fili insists, despite his gleeful expression telling her the exact opposite. "I would call it. . . exotic? And, maybe confusing at times. . . But, no. Certainly not the worst one I've ever heard."

She rolls her eyes. "Exotic? Seriously?" She snorts and shakes her head, aiming past him for the hallway. "That's a new one."

"I thought it was clever. . . Wait -where are you going?"

She glances over her shoulder, a flicker of a smile still touching his lips as he watches her walk away. Huh. Is it just her, or does he sound disappointed? Well. . . guess it's sort of nice to know that some of the dwarves honestly like talking with her.

"I'll be back." Lorne tells him, and flips a quick salute before she vanishes around the far corner of Bag End. . .

. . . to where a rather dejected Bilbo is sitting on the edge of his bed.

His dark eyes are on hers from the second she appears. A little narrowed, a little unreadable, and. . . utterly exhausted, really. A knot of guilt settles like a rock inside of her stomach as he just keeps staring at her, brows drawn. Not exactly a welcome invitation. . . Before she can even open her mouth, though, his already is.

"Are you going to try and convince me to go with them, too?"

Lorne frowns. "What? No, I wasn't. . ."

The hobbit scoffs. "It's fine, Lorne. I know that _you_ want to join them. Anyone can see that -it's written all over your face. I've never seen you so excited about. . . well, anything before."

A flare of sharp, stinging hurt punches through her heart. "Hey, that's not fair." She scowls. "Look, I came back here to make sure that you were. . . I just wanted to check on you, okay?" She ducks her head, her face burning uncomfortably as the words catch on her tongue. "We go together or not at all, right? That's what you said to Thorin. If we're going to help them. . . I want it to be because we both _want_ to." She mutters. "An adventure wouldn't be any fun without you, anyways."

There is a heavy beat of silence.

"Oh, Lorne. I'm so. . . I didn't mean. . ."

Lorne hears him roughly clear his throat, and then there a few more muffled sentences that she doesn't quite catch. When she looks up again, Bilbo has his face buried in his hands, and that's just. . . shit. She never knows how to handle situations like this.

She slowly approaches the bed. And, after another minute, she sits down next to the hobbit, and he looks up at her over the tips of his spread fingers.

"I'm sorry." He apologizes again, eventually lowering his arms. A stilted smile tries to brighten his face. "Tonight has been quite the night, though -hasn't it? Even with all of my answers, now. . . I still have no idea what to do with them. I mean, a journey across the world? A dragon? And the very real possibility that we may never return to Bag End?" He croaks. "I don't even _know_ these dwarves, and Gandalf is asking us to, to just. . ." He trails off with a sigh, shoulders slumping.

Lorne has never seen her hobbit in such a state before, and she doesn't like it. She doesn't like it at all, but. . . she doesn't know how to comfort him, either. She doesn't know how to tell him that she understands, that he doesn't have to justify himself to her. She doesn't. . .

She just doesn't know.

With a hesitant hand, she finally reaches out, and then awkwardly pats his knee. At least it's something, right?

Bilbo attempts to smile again. "Lorne. . ." His gaze drops to her hand, a considering expression stealing across his face. "I know why I _don't_ want to go. . . but, why are you so eager to?" He pauses. "Does it have something to do with that small note you received? Is this finally the adventure you were hoping for?"

Oh, she didn't even. . .

"No, actually." Her eyes widen in surprise. "I wasn't thinking about the note at all. I just figured that landing in Middle-earth was the adventure on its own, yah know?" She admits, ears turning pink with embarrassment. "And, I don't. . . Bilbo, about the quest. . ." She stumbles.

Great. If _she_ doesn't understand her reasons for wanting to do this, how the hell is anyone else supposed to?

"You know that I love living in the Shire." Lorne begins. "And that I love staying at Bag End, but. . . it would sound pretty selfish of me to say that it isn't enough, wouldn't it?" She averts her stare to the floor, blushing darker as her frustration melts into a slow burn of shame. "It's just, as much as I've enjoyed it here, it isn't quite. . . and being around the dwarves is almost like. . ." She draws in a short, unsteady breath.

This isn't working. She isn't making any sense, and her tongue is all twisted up and she feels so terrible for even considering these things. . .

"It's okay." Bilbo gently cuts in. "It's okay." His voice is soft, but when he places his smaller hand over her own. . .

". . . is it?" She whispers, staring hard at their curled, overlapping fingers.

His skin fair and smooth where hers his rough and tanned. His touch warm where hers is frozen. His grip strong where hers starts to falter. But, still, she holds on. She holds on to him with everything that she has.

"I'm sorry, Bilbo." She tells him, because there is nothing left for her to say.

And the hobbit just smiles, sad and small, while, from the parlor, or even from worlds away. . . a dark and haunting voice begins to sing.

Lorne doesn't mean to fall asleep, but it doesn't take very long for her eyes to start drooping. And then she is leaning back and taking up almost all of the room on the tiny bed with her legs hanging off the bottom, blankets being tucked in around her as the dwindling notes of that low, grieving melody weave through her head.

And when she finally sleeps, she dreams. But these dreams are weird. Even for her, these ones are weird. They aren't dark, and they aren't violent -not at all. In fact, she seems to be caught in a fading tangle of memories:

Of a brilliant afternoon and golden-warm sunshine. Of a faint bell being rung at the front of her old workshop, and the thick, familiar scents of hot metal and machinery oil sticking to her skin as she pushes up her goggles and hurries through the warehouse.

"I'll be there in a second!" She calls out, nearly breathless when she pushes against the swinging _employees only_ door and stumbles to halt behind the counter. "Sorry about that, but I'm the only one on. We aren't usually very busy on Sundays. . ." A sudden, crooked grin strikes across her face at the sight that greets her.

A tall, older gentleman in a sharp-looking suit is waiting for her. His white hair is cropped short, and blue eyes gleam behind professional, wire-rimmed glasses.

"Dr. Grey! Hey, how are yah?" Lorne beams. She grabs a rag from underneath the register and tries to wipe the grease marks from her hands. "How are those fixtures in your garage holding up?"

"Oh, quite well, my dear -to both questions." He chuckles. "Thank you again for suggesting to replace them the last time you were in the neighborhood. I truly appreciate your attention to detail." He pauses, and something flickers behind his smile.

Something heavy and oddly meaningful. Something that she can't. . . can't quite interpret.

"In fact, your excellent skills are what brings me here today." Dr. Grey continues, and his gaze casually slides to his companion standing on his left -a smaller man that she hadn't even noticed.

"Lorne, this is a very good friend of mine: Mr. William Baker."

Hmm. . . Mr. Baker is fair-skinned and ash blond, with deep brown eyes smudged with the reddish purple bruises of chronic insomnia. Despite being a little worn, a little haggard in appearance, with the wrinkled button-down and threadbare jeans, his hands shoved deep into the pockets, the man has a friendly, inviting face. Lorne finds herself grinning at him automatically.

"Hey, there." She gives a slight, two-fingered wave. "Nice to meet yah, Mr. Baker."

"Likewise. And, please -Bill is fine." He tells her, with a twitch of his own smile as he offers out his hand.

"Um. . . that might not be the best idea." She admits, and sheepishly holds up oil-stained palms. "Sorry, there was an issue with one of the machines, and. . . well, yeah." Her ears turn dull pink with embarrassment. "Anyways! How can I help you?"

Dr. Grey steps back when Bill takes a step forward, the latter still smiling -or trying to, but a shadow is passing over his eyes as his expression begins to slip. "Ah, well. Yes." He roughly clears his throat and fumbles for something in the breast pocket of his shirt. "I have. . . I have something, here. . ."

Lorne frowns. Whatever he wants done. . . it must be very important to him. She can see it in the lines tightening at the corners of his mouth, in his unconscious reluctance to even unfold the piece of paper between his fingers, let alone slide it over the counter to her. He rubs at his lower lip and hesitates before finally, finally letting it go.

"You do work with stone, as well as metals, right?" He asks. "I'd like some engraving done. For an, um. . . an anniversary."

"Yeah, of course. Whatever you need." She tells him earnestly. It isn't hard to figure out -from the withdrawn look on his face, the glimpse of a silver chain around his neck. . . to the shimmer of gold against the pale hollow of his throat.

A wedding band. An anniversary. Oh, dear. . .

Lorne looks down at the paper and swallows uncomfortably. Bill has drawn a light sketch of a memorial plaque, and something. . . something about the name. . .

_Thomas McDermott_ -? Where has she heard that name before -?

She stares and stares at the print as the afternoon begins to fall away. Gentle rays of sunlight darken into foggy, purple-black shadows across the shop. A heavy rain hammers against the roof, sounding like a barrage of rocks tumbling down from the skies. She's still behind the counter as the dream shifts into a different memory, but she has her army jacket on and a ring of keys in her hand. It's almost time to close up.

Whistling under her breath, she locks the register and moves towards the doors just as they fly open, and something wet and cursing stumbles inside. A man, actually. Big dark eyes and dripping dark hair falling into his face as he pulls off his hood. . . and Lorne just kind of stands there, gaze round with surprise, her hand oustretched and the keys on the floor.

"I didn't meant to startle you. Here, let me. . ." He bends down and quickly grabs the heavy ring. "I hope these aren't your house keys." His lips flash a pearly white smile, making his eyes -which are a little more greenish than she thought- crinkle and shine beneath the low lights.

"Um, no. . . No, thankfully -they're just for work." Lorne stammers, accepting the ring with all of its two dozen jangling keys back, and stuffing the whole thing clumsily into her pocket. "May I help you with something? I mean, it's a little past our office hours. . ."

"Oh, yes. Actually, my car broke down just up the street." He reveals, rubbing the side of his neck in obvious embarrassment. "I was hoping that you had a phone I might be able to use? This was the only place left open. Or, it was." He grins again, and there go his damn, crinkling eyes again.

"I am sorry for just bursting in like this. Left my cell at home, too, since I didn't think that I'd be gone for very long. . ."

He has a nice accent. Not British, not that she can tell. Close, maybe? She doesn't really have an ear for these things. Australian? No, definitely not that. Welsh? Hmm. Or, maybe. . ?

Lorne shakes her head and pushes those odd, distracting thoughts away. Yeah, not really the time for any of that. "Sure, sure. Right back here." She waves him over to the counter, ignoring the tight, twisting lurch of her stomach when she passes him the reciever and her fingers brush his.

"I truly appreciate this -thank you." He says, his voice warm and brimming with relief. "And this is the fourth time in three weeks that this has happened to me. I should have the bloody number for the towing service committed to memory by now." He chuckles under his breath.

"Or. . . maybe you should consider different methods of travel?" She lightly suggests, and leans on the corner of the counter that is the farthest from his position. He has his wallet open and a pile of business cards spread across the plastic, and she watches him sift through the mess until he finds the one that he needs.

He has very long, nimble fingers. Rough fingers, with deeply tanned wrists and hands. Like he does a lot of work outside -maybe, landscaping?

"Buses are good. Affordable, and with decent schedules." She continues. "Trains. . . nah. Not trains. How about a bicycle? Oh, I also hear that motorized scooters are making a rapid and popular come back. . ." Her stomach gives another traitorous stab when the man laughs -somewhat low and kind of scratchy.

The sound of it makes her jacket collar burn around her throat and her mouth split with its usual, ridiculously toothy smile.

He punches in the tow truck number and sticks the phone to his ear. "Honestly?" He grins. "I don't think that I could pull off the motorized scooter look."

Lorne scoffs. "Are you kidding? I'm pretty sure that you could travel down the middle of the road via pogo stick or something and pull it off, no problem."

. . . what? Did she really just -? Oh, God. She didn't, didn't she? But the man is laughing again, his cheekbones dusted red, and she quite can't bring herself to care. . .

She wakes up with a flinch, his peculiar accent still ringing in her ears as the world slowly, gradually, comes into focus. Blearily, Lorne rubs at her bloodshot eyes and frowns. That was. . . that was just. . . huh. The random jumble of images are already returning to darkness when she attempts to remember them.

Was she dreaming about Gandalf? Or, was that Bilbo? Seriously, what the hell -?

And, wait a minute. This isn't her room, either. She squints over her shoulder and sees the hobbit sprawled out across the small bed, snoring, and pretty much dead to the world. Then, she hears a murmur of conversation coming from down the hall. . . and all of the crazy and wonderful things that happened last night begin to filter back through her head.

She ignores the stiffness in her spine from sleeping on the matress and quickly clambers to her feet. Her dreams are _useless_ -anyways. Who the hell cares? All they do is leave her aching and feeling strange. . . and empty. She doesn't need any more of that.

Besides, the dwarves are leaving this morning. Hopefully, she can catch them before they do.


	10. Braving Smiles

I am so sorry for the delay in this chapter, but. . . real life kind of got in the way. On top of the eight feet of snow currently occupying my neighborhood, I had to re-write this whole part because of some computer issues =( It was really discouraging (I had twelve pages done! and it took me FOREVER to get it back to somewhere half-way decent. . .

So, sorry again, and thanks for all of the reviews and alerts so far!

ooo OOO ooo OOO ooo

**#10. Braving Smiles**.

Everyone is already outside and readying their supplies by the time Lorne scrambles out into the pale, creeping dawn after them. This is terrible. Well, not terrible. . . She just feels out of sorts. A little lost, maybe. But she still makes her way through the company, offering awkward, distracted grins and well-wishes to as many dwarves as she can.

Dori nods and Ori blushes almost as red as his hair. Oin looks a tad suspicious, and Gloin has to apologize since her can't remember her name, which at least makes her laugh. Bombur translates for a wildly gesturing Bifur, and assures her that they are both grateful.

Bofur tips his ear-flapped hat and smiles wide, as cheerful as ever.

"It' just too bad that you and the hobbit are a packaged deal." He admits, and then shoots her a sheepish look as he shakes his head. "I mean, ah. All I'm saying is, is that it would have been nice to have the both of you with us, Miss Lorne. But I understand why yeh can't."

She takes a breath, and it settles in her chest a little easier. Her thankful, answering smile is even a little less forced. See? This isn't so bad. She can get through this. Hell, these dwarves are barely more than acquaintances! She really shouldn't care this much about being left behind.

. . . should she?

No. Just. . . no. She isn't going to keep thinking about it. She _can't_ keep thinking about it. This odd, inexplicable heaviness between her ribs is something that she is just going to have to live with. Or ignore -she's gotten pretty good at ignoring it, too. Which is what she tries to do when she spots Fili and Kili lounging by the garden with Nori.

Ignore it, and it will go away.

Lorne waves to get their attention. Nori returns the gesture and Kili grins as she approaches. Fili, on the other hand, huffs, and when she stops next to them, asks her: _why didn't you return last night?_ with only a mildly accusing expression.

Of course, joining up with the dwarves in the parlor room had completely slipped her mind after her conversation with Bilbo, so she flushes and apologizes because, honestly, it wasn't on purpose -and at least they get to see each other this morning, right?

The blond offers up a faint smile, but doesn't put much effort into it. "Aye, at least." He echoes, shuffling his boots over the grass.

"Cheer up, brother." Kili gives him a reassuring look. "We aren't saying goodbye forever, you know."

It. . . it does seem a little like forever, though -doesn't it? And Fili doesn't even bother to hide the disappointment in his eyes when he shrugs. He must be thinking along the same lines that Lorne is which, naturally, makes her feel awful again. She certainly didn't come out here to depress anyone. Well, except herself, but that was sort of inevitable.

And the dwarves don't need that right now -_especially_ right now.

"He's right. It won't be forever." She agrees, putting on a brave, crooked grin. "I'm hoping that you guys will remember us, once you end up great, dragon-slaying heroes and everything. I'd love to be able to visit your mountain, too. You know, some day."

"Of course!" Kili beams, in the same instance that his brother blurts out:

"What? We'd never forget you!" Which has the blond turning bright, bright pink beneath his braids while his brother bursts into laughter and Nori, though a bit confused, chuckles under his breath.

And that's just. . . Oh, dear. Lorne feels her ears start to burn as the remote implications sink in, and then her entire face is viciously hot at the prospect that maybe, perhaps. . . there was a tiny chance that Fili had been flirting with her last night? Maybe?

Great -now she is about as red as the tomatoes in the garden behind them and this is totally _not_ awkward. No, why would it be? She clears her throat and takes an automatic step back, her smile stuck to her mouth like a layer of rubber cement. Her expression is probably frozen in some weird combination of panic, embarrassment, surprise, and. . . wait, she did mention the panic, didn't she? How is she even supposed to react to the idea of someone flirting with her? Beacuse, yeah. She has a feeling that shaky, sweating hands and an overwhelming sense of discomfort isn't exactly normal.

"Well, that's. . . good. Great." She eventually stammers. "Because I won't forget you either, okay? So, um. Be careful out there. All three of you."

Fili nods. His blushing expression sobers quickly enough, and even the grin his younger brother is still wearing fades into something serious.

"Aye. We will, Miss MacGrath." Nori chimes in.

"And you take care, as well." Fili adds, when she turns to leave. His eyes are a little too blue, a little too intense when they capture hers.

Lorne barely manages another anxious smile in response as she walks away, and she certainly tries to go as quickly as possible without looking like she is trying to escape -which she is- or tripping over herself in the process -which she does, anyways.

But, hey, being caught in horrible, embarrassing situations is pretty standard living for her. Or, it used to be. Four tough years of high school taught her how to adapt, survive, and generally brush off waves of humiliation with a grin and a flip sense of sarcasm. Granted, this is a bit different than high school. . . but the basic principle is still the same, isn't it? Brush it off and smile.

Now, if only her school had taught a class on social skills.

As she heads back to the front steps of the house, Lorne suddenly notices two dwarves lurking near the bottom of the hill. One of them looks like Balin, if the thick white beard is any clue, and the other. . .

"Mister Dwalin!" A delighted grin stretches across her face as she rushes down the path to see him.

And, naturally, he had been right in the middle of discussing something with his brother, given that the pair of them turn to her with varying degrees of polite bemusement and narrow-eyed suspicion in their expressions.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't even. . ." She hesitates, her smile faltering. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Think nothing of it, lass." Balin tips his chin in greeting. His own smile is kind, though his gaze is curiously distant when it slides from hers. "We were just about finished, weren't we?" He gives Dwalin a brief, unreadable look.

The dwarf in question merely snorts and rolls his eyes. Which could probably mean a great many things, but Balin takes it as an agreement and nods. "Good." He says. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must find Thorin. Pleasure to see you again, Miss MacGrath."

"You, too." Lorne beams. "I just wanted to wish you a safe journey and everything, that's all. And, when you see Mister Thorin. . ." She pauses, a warm flush crawling up the side of her neck at the memory of the surly dwarf.

Anger. Irritation. Exasperation. And an unpleasant mix of all three tug her mouth into a little scowl. She wasn't lying when she told Gandalf that she didn't like him, but. . . she also wasn't lying when she said that she respected him. And, now -Balin is watching her with a new attentiveness that doesn't make this any easier for her to spit out. Even Dwalin, arms crossed over his broad chest and leaning back against the fence, seems to be interested in what she has to say about their company leader.

"When you see him, tell him that. . . just, tell him. . ." Lorne rubs at her eyebrow in frustration. This _really_ shouldn't be that hard to say. "I hope that he makes it back there -to Erebor." She finally mutters. "I hope that he makes it home."

Dwalin blinks. Balin stares. Actually, both dwarves stare at her for so long that she thinks she must have offended them. Was what she said really so inappropriate? All she wants is to part with everyone on somewhat amicable terms. . . Is that too much to ask for?

She awkwardly shifts her feet, the dirt and sand rough under her bare toes, and just as she is about to stutter out another useless apology, Balin smiles at her. A real smile, this time, with the twinkle back in his gaze and everything. And she gives this tremendous sigh of relief that she didn't even know she was holding in.

"I will tell him, lass." The white-haired dwarf assures her, bowing slightly. "And. . . thank you. Thank you very much." Then he turns and continues on down the winding path through the Shire.

Lorne watches Balin for a moment longer before she leans against the fence next to Dwalin. She squints over at him, unconsciously copying his straight-shoulders, arms-folded position, and he is still watching her with this crooked, not-quite scowl.

She would have been perfectly happy, sitting here in silence with him. He seems more like the actions speak louder than words type, anyways. And she can relate to that. But, nope. Her keeping his company like this seems to confuse him enough to get him to speak.

"Something I should know?" He eventually prompts, brows furrowing.

"Not really." She shrugs. "I wanted to see everyone again. Actually. . . I sort of had to. You know, just in case I had accidentally dreamed last night or something." She averts her eyes from his, feeling a little too vulnerable under their scrutiny as the words spill out.

Her dreams have been so weird over this past year that, honestly? She wouldn't have been at all surprised if she had woken up this morning to find that nothing had actually happened last night. In fact, that probably would have been her most normal dream, yet.

"Wishing that you had?" He grunts, and his voice is oddly neutral.

"What? No!" Lorne instantly lifts her head to scowl at him. Hurt flashes briefly through her face, replaced with stinging disbelief at such a ridiculous question. "Why would you even ask me that? No matter what. . . I mean. . ." Her scowl deepens, ears flushing pink. "Look, I like you guys, okay? It's that simple. And I would go and help you if I could, but. . . but Bilbo is my best friend, and I would never leave him behind."

Besides, her going along without him wouldn't have a point. The dwarves don't need _her_ -they need a burglar. They need Bilbo. She wouldn't be invited to join them by herself, that has already been made quite clear.

Dwalin doesn't have anything to say to that. He just keeps frowning at her, and his expression suggests that he honestly has no idea what to make of her. Sure, he could have just waved the previous night off as a fluke, her being so interested in making weapons and bombarding him with so many bizarre inquiries. . . but he can't do that today, not when she has obviously sought him out on her own accord and wants to keep talking. So, she siezes the moment and decides to ask him another question, because Balin and Thorin are approaching with Gandalf behind them, and they are surely going to tell the company that they should leave, and. . .

"Um, if Bilbo and I _were_ coming along with you. . ." She begins, her toes digging anxiously into the sand. "I would have wanted you to teach me. You know, how to fight." She clears her throat. "If I had asked. . . would you have?" Her dark eyes are wide, and she really tries not to sound so hopeful, considering the fact that this is an utterly hypothetical scenario. . .

But she probably looks a little too eager, regardless, because Dwalin is huffing under his breath and he is definitely smirking at her, now. And that might be a good thing, or it might just be him making fun of her again. Lorne is more inclined to go with the latter, and elbows him in the arm without even thinking about it.

"You don't have to laugh at me." She grumbles, and then he elbows her back with enough force to almost knock her over. "Hey! What the hell was that for?" She splutters.

"Proving a point, lass." He grins -well, more like he bares his teeth at her as she spins around on unsteady heels.

Proving a -what? She barely has a moment to grasp that before his cannon ball-sized fist is going _straight for her face_ and she gasps out, adrenaline flooding through her limbs in a shower of steel and sparks as she yanks her head back, automatically crossing her arms in front of her to deflect the blow.

But, no. It doesn't stop there. Lorne yelps another wordless protest when the dwarf pulls his punch at the very last minute, and, again, he gives her all of a second to try to remember how to fucking _breathe_ -and then his other fist is coming at her from the opposite side and she ducks, leaping back a step as his boot swings around to kick out her ankle, and swears a rather vicious blue streak when she trips and lands on her tailbone in the middle of the dirt.

What the _fuck?_ Just. . . seriously! What the fuck was that all about? Her body is flushed from ears to toes, vibrating with tightly-coiled tension as she grits her teeth. Dark red splotches pulse against the corners of her vision, and when she glares up at him, the dwarf himself is drenched in this thick, bloodied haze.

But then Dwalin grins again. A little less deadly shark and a little more human as he offers out his hand, a low chuckle rumbling deep in his throat. The haze is slowly clearing, normal shades of color gradually returning to her sight, and Lorne. . .

Lorne just stares at him, her eyes huge and bewildered. "What the hell kind of a point were yah trying to prove with _that_ display-?" She chokes out. Sure, none of his attacks actually _landed_. . . but, still!

"If you would have been worth the effort." He replies easily.

Oh, that's. . . oh. She watches him for another incredulous moment, and then accepts his hand. His fingers are rough, marred with scars and tattoos alike as they swallow hers, and he pulls her to her feet with a not-so-shocking amount of strength.

Well? Her annoyance is fast melting into a strange, twisting ache of other emotions -the most prevalent one being this. . . this overwhelming, almost desperate need for a glimmer of approval. _Would_ she have been worth it? Is he even. . . going to tell her?

"Mister Dwalin!" A voice suddenly shouts, cackling with mirth. "I reckon that Mr. Boggins wouldn't appreciate you breaking his mailbox, now -would he?"

"Aye, and go easy on the poor lass!" Another adds, though they sound just as amused as the first. "We don't need to repay the hobbit his hospitalty by breaking his friend, neither!"

Kili and Bofur. Right, of course. Because this just happened, and it happened in front of an entire _audience_ -no less, which is. . . not really the greatest thing in the world. Lorne turns a spectacular shade of red as she drops her gaze to the ground, trying to brush off her clothes while a number of the dwarves collapse into laughter.

"Are you all quite finished?" A third voice interjects -impassive, and yet with a hint of storm clouds brewing underneath. All of the laughter stops. "We need to get moving."

Lorne looks up as Thorin passes by, Balin at his left and Gandalf trailing behind. He shoots her an unreadable glance, but. . . then he kind of nods at her, before he is ordering Fili and Kili to ready their ponies and everyone springs into action.

Huh. That wasn't so bad. It was definitely civil, and maybe not friendly, but it's more than she was expecting from him. She smiles back and waves, just as the other dwarves start aiming for the nearby pasture where their ponies are grazing.

"You won't, yah know." Someone abruptly says, and it takes her a surprised second to remember that Dwalin is still next to her.

"I won't. . . what?" She frowns. Her lightened heart quickly begins to sink. Oh, he doesn't mean. . ? Does he?

"Break. Not as easily as I thought yah would, at least." His shrug is casual but his eyes are heavy and focused, squinting at her against the sunshine as it warms over her shoulders. "Your footwoork is clumsy but your balance is decent enough. Likely not the worst I would have had to teach how to use a blade." He smirks.

Though, something about this one. . . it almost looks _softer_ -for lack of a better word, and Lorne is left gaping after the dwarf when he finally joins the rest, her blushing face split nearly in half with the biggest, stupidest grin. She doesn't even notice that Gandalf is attempting to talk to her until he lays a hand on her shoulder, and then she jumps about a foot in the air.

"Oh! Oh, goodness." She shakes her head. "I'm sorry, I wasn't. . ." But she stops at the look the wizard is giving her: an odd mixture of fondness and exasperation that is. . . sort of, weirdly familiar. And familiar in a way that it wasn't quite last night, either.

It hits her all at once -a great, cresting wave of realization that knocks the breath straight from her lungs. Lorne stares into his crinkled blue eyes, blue eyes she used to know from behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and feels all of the color drain from her face.

God, _no._ Just. . . it _can't_ be!

"Dr. Grey?" She whispers, her voice barely a croak as it struggles past her lips. The sunlight is too hot against her back, now. She can feel it burning through her clothes, through her head, and right into her short-circuiting brain.

"Ah." The wizard nods, and his smile fades. "I see that a decent night of rest has helped you remember a few things."

And he says this so simply, so matter-of-factly, that Lorne feels a sudden, blinding rush of anger towards him. "God!" She hisses, rubbing her hands through her hair. "You couldn't just _tell_ me that? You couldn't just let me know _gently_ that I'm probably losing my mind? God, oh my God -all this time, you were there, and I was. . ." Her breath stutters in her chest.

Is this the panic attack that she should have had over a year ago, when she first landed here? Is her dread and disbelief at arriving in another world finally catching up with her?

Gandalf watches her carefully as she just. . . sits down. Right there, in the middle of the sandy path in front of Bag End, trying very, _very_ hard not to look as if her entire basis for existing is crumbling around her.

"My dear, there is no need to be so dramatic." He finally says. "You are certainly not losing your mind, I can assure you. And I couldn't reveal to you the details of our prior meeting, because. . . well. I'm not entirely sure." He admits. "An outside force seems to be behind your appearance in Middle-earth, something far more powerful than I."

And it's only his obvious confusion about this whole thing that has Lorne lifting her head from her hands and glaring at him. "Right. Forgive me, _Gandalf_ -if I find that a little hard to believe." She grumbles. "You said that I could ask you whatever I wanted this morning, and we don't even have the _time_ for it." She points to where Thorin is saddled on his pony, looking ever bit as regal and majestic as a dwarf king should as he talks to his company.

Probably more so, actually.

"We will, Miss Lorne." Gandalf reassures her. "I know this must be difficult for you to grasp, and I cannot fault you for that. I don't understand all of it it, myself." He frowns down at her. "But we will have the time to discuss this -and it may be sooner than you think."

"What? More riddles?" She yells after the infuriating wizard, as he goes to the only full-sized horse amongst the dwarves and their smaller steeds. "Come on! I don't even get a hint?" The worst headache of her _life_ is beginning to throb behind her eyes.

Man, this is. . . this is so un-_fucking_-believable. . .


End file.
